


Sins of the Father

by indiefic



Series: Sins of the Father Universe [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU set around the time of A New Hope.  Padme didn't die.  She's been living in exile for most of the twins' lives, but now it is time to return to Coruscant and the Emperor.</p><p> </p><p>This story is unfinished and it ends at a very frustrating spot in the action.  Read at your peril.  It is marked as finished because it is as finished as it will ever be.  For a long time I had it marked unfinished, but people kept asking for updates.  There will be no updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sins of the Father

 

She tries to look at him objectively.  He’s a young man now, not her youngling.  His blonde hair is in need of trimming, his skin tanned by Tatooine’s twin suns.  His blue eyes are weighted with a worldliness that no one this young should possess.  She takes the blame for this as she does for so many other sins.  Her most recent victim, this young man with the wizened soul and heavy heart.  She tries to imagine him another way.  She tries to imagine him impatient and adventurous, whining, cajoling.  But she can’t.  For none of those words could ever be used to describe her son.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.  She knows he means those words to the very depth of his soul.  The care she has taken to keep certain realities from him has been futile.  

Her son has a very good idea what his request can – and will – cost her.

And yet, he has to ask.  Maybe he understands just how desperately she needs to do this.

She smiles, gently touching his cheek with her calloused fingertips. “You never have to apologize to me, Luke,” she says.  “It’s long past time.”  

It’s the truth and he knows it because he can sense these things just as Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon would have been able to sense it.  And he is a far better Jedi than his father ever was because Luke will not attempt to change her fate.

Her heart aches with the desire to see the tiniest bit of relief on his features, to know that she has lifted his burden the most minuscule amount.  But she knows that she hasn’t.  She’s just added yet another weight for him to bear.

 

* * *

 

Padmé forgot.

She blinks, pulling her cloak more closely around her head and shoulders. The coarse material does little to shield her, for it is not desert sand and  
wind she's trying to block.  It is so loud here, so pungent and kinetic.  Her senses are assaulted as she steps from the ship.  

She forgot.  She forgot _this_ place.  

The sights, smells and sounds of Coruscant rush at her from every vector before she's had time to completely traverse the gangplank.  It has been more than a decade since she last looked upon this teeming throng of life and death.  The mass struggle for survival is a palpable force, reverberating in her bones.  It is hard for her to imagine that this was once her home in a way that not even Naboo had ever been.  This is where she had shared tender nights as a blushing bride.  This is where she bore her children.  And yet it is foreign and desolate in ways she cannot articulate.

Those forgotten memories took place a lifetime ago.  The long years on Tatooine have made this place alien and discomfiting.  This is not home.  This is the place she fled.  In the wake of the war’s end and subsequent purges, Coruscant was no longer her refuge.  She could not bear to be here.  She could not bear to be near him.   

Her Emperor.

( _Her husband._ )

She pushes the word from her mind, shifting her vision to the towering structures illuminated brightly against the night sky.  He has kept her from her home for far too long, both here and Naboo.  For the last dozen years she has cosseted herself away in her forgotten, dust-filled corner of the galaxy.  

He was eager to abet her retreat.  He did not threaten her.  He would never threaten her.  Point of fact, he did not and does not address her at all.  This is because she does not speak to him - and he has always been a vain, prideful creature.  Luke and Leia had just learned to speak the last time she was in the same room with him.

Padmé casts her eyes to the ground and follows Threepio and Mehht across the landing platform.  She does not wish to linger here.  Lingering would mean the possibility of drawing attention and that is the last thing she wants to do – for now.  Given her former life as a politician, she will not rule that out as a future tactic.  But for now, it would not serve her well to have it known that she has returned to Coruscant.  

She doesn't mean to surprise him.  Her presence here would never do that.  Though she would never doubt the loyalty of those closest to her, Padmé  is not naïve enough to underestimate either her husband's influence or his power.  He always knows what she's doing.  There's no way she could have made it to Coruscant without his knowledge and – as much as it angers her – his tacit approval.

For a time she was certain that he no longer cared, that he might have forgotten her entirely.  Not even the vast expanses of space and social status separating Coruscant from the Outer Rim are sufficient to silence the rumors of his consorts and conquests.  It shames her that she cared and was wounded by his actions.  She foolishly thought his obvious attention to other females meant that she was beyond his notice.  She was wrong.  And Nar Dooja paid for her naïveté with his life.  Nar was a good man, kind and thoughtful.  But he wasn't her lover, wasn't even her confidant.  He was a friend.  And the mere fact that Nar dared to visit his attentions upon the wife of Emperor Skywalker sealed his fate.

Despite Padmé’s sense of propriety, she didn’t attended Nar's funeral.  She didn’t even extended her condolences to Nar's family.  She hadn't wished to give her husband any excuses for further violence.  She was grateful that he waited until the twins were away to punish her supposed indiscretion.  
 

That is the single common ground they now share – the care for their children.  He is ruthless and cold, yet she can not deny his devotion to Luke and Leia.  
 

She knows it is love he feels for his children, though as with all things in his life, it isn’t that simple.  Anakin never had a father.  Obi-Wan was his mentor and the closest thing he had to a father figure, but the relationship between a Master and a Padawan was by necessity different from a parent’s relationship to his child.  Anakin has no life experience to guide him, so she knows he’s improvised as usual – to varying degrees of success.  

Anakin does not relate to Luke and Leia the way Padmé’s father related to her.  Anakin isn’t one to provide quiet, unconditional acceptance, effusive affection and gentle discipline.  He is mercurial, demanding absolute loyalty and perfection from his children.  She knows from eavesdropping on the twins’ conversations that he upbraids his children for being soft and pampered in one breath and then spoils them rotten in the next.

She cannot depend on him to provide the twins with a stable environment. That has always been her role to play.  She has no choice in the matter.  He is their father.  When the twins were younger she often thought of running, of trying to keep the twins from him.  Only the cold dread of knowing he would have found them, that he would have taken Luke and Leia from her, is what kept her firmly under his thumb.

She spares a glance over Threepio’s tarnished and battered shoulder at the skyline.  She is unable to prevent the frown that tugs at her lips.  Even on the landing platform far above Coruscant's surface, the Emperor's castle towers on the horizon.  This monstrosity had not been completed when last she was here.  It was in the rooms of her own apartment that she woke after Mustafar.  Cocooned by the familiarity of her bedroom, her medical droid and her devoted handmaiden, Dormé, she never felt so alone.  

More than fifteen years later, the births of both the twins and the Empire are nothing more than an agonizing jumble of memories.  The physical pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to her emotional turmoil.  Her love for her children was immediate and desperate and pure.  But that love was eclipsed by heartache so profound it was nearly fatal.  She is shocked that the heartache didn't kill her.  

She feels somewhat sheepish now, even thinking such nonsense.  But it is true.  She knows that people don't literally die of broken hearts, but she knows that somehow it was her destiny.   In those dark moments after Mustafar, he somehow used his newfound power to bind her fading soul to her body, to shore up her heart, patch it together so she could survive the death of her beloved Republic just as she survived the death of her Anakin Skywalker.  

He was right.  The brash pronouncement he made as a young man following his mother’s death came to pass.  He became so powerful he could prevent people from dying.

It took months for Padmé to recover physically.  Finding emotional stability took years.  He stayed away for weeks at a time, looking in on her when she was sleeping, receiving his children at his new Imperial residence.  
 

He was more driven than ever during that tumultuous time, making good on the grim future he offered at Mustafar.  Perhaps invigorated by his triumph over his first mentor, Obi-Wan, Lord Vader stopped at nothing.  Luke and Leia were toddlers when he turned on and murdered his newest mentor, Emperor Palpatine.  But the newly christened Emperor Skywalker's absence didn't offer Padmé's heart any respite.  His presence permeated the very air she breathed.

One day it was finally more than she could take.  She flung open the doors of her gilded cage and forced Typho to escort her to the Emperor's private quarters.  As usual, her presence did not shock him.  But he refused to meet her gaze, whether from shame or boredom, she neither knew nor cared.  She would not stay there another moment.  In retrospect, she knows he expected it.  He didn’t argue.  He didn’t speak a single word.  He merely inclined his head in a slightly mocking bow.  

 _Love_.  That was his exact phrasing. He would be so powerful he would keep those he loved from dying.  Yet she felt no love in what he had done for her – _to her_.  Some part of her knew that he kept her bound to the mortal coil as punishment whether he realized it himself  
or not.

Padmé fled to the one place in the galaxy that she felt would be the most benign to him.  Tatooine was the antithesis of the verdant lushness of her own homeworld.  She had no ties to the planet,  no friends or family.  Despite the fact that he showed no desire to either see or speak to her, Padmé knew better than to run to Naboo or Alderaan.  If she attempted to surround herself with friends or family, it would do nothing but provoke his jealous and possessive nature.  Anakin had no love for his step-brother or sister-in-law, but he knew them well enough.  He knew they harbored as much distrust for the Jedi Order and Padmé's Senatorial allies as Anakin himself held.

It was as easy to blame him then as it is to blame him now.  But in her heart, she knows that her own shame drove her to Tatooine.  She didn't want to face the people she loved, to have to explain to them how this had happened.  It was easier to forget, to hide.

But Tatooine wasn't the prison she imagined.  In its own alien way, Tatooine welcomed her.  Its harsh, desolate climate echoed in the space in her chest that used to contain her heart.

Tatooine's environment was treacherous, its inhabitants a motley bunch of slaves, criminals and uneducated farmers.  And yet, in that absolute bleakness in which her lover had been born, she found her own rebirth.  Luke and Leia were with her, on that point he hadn't argued.  Owen and Beru took them in, as glad for the company and the extra hands as they were for the modest stipend she drew from his Imperial accounts.  

That too, had been a point of much contention.  She vehemently rejected his proclamation that he would pay for her lifestyle, whether frugal or fantastic. She ignored his mandate and pawned the set of Irian jewels he presented to her upon the twin's birth.  She used the shockingly few credits the jewels garnered to pay for new vaporators during her second season on the Lars farmstead. The next day both the jewels and the pawn broker's dead body were delivered to their doorstep.  She quickly learned to accept his generosity with – if not grace, then at the very least - silence.

When they were old enough to be away from her, the twins were escorted to Coruscant regularly to see their father.  His summons for his children to be delivered to the nearest spaceport at the appointed time were always relayed through some imperial lackey.  As much as she resented being at his beck and call, she didn’t dare risk giving him an excuse to visit personally.  She dutifully packed the twins up with a smile and a kiss, leaving them in the capable care of Captain Typho.

Why she trusts a Dark Lord of the Sith with her children remains a mystery.  She knows he did nothing to deserve her trust.  Obi-Wan told her about the younglings Vader murdered at the Jedi Temple.  He never even bothered to deny the charge.  And yet she did trust him.  She still does.  Some part of her understands that Anakin and the twins need each other in ways she will never fully comprehend.

Leia is here somewhere.  Possibly within his castle, but more likely out at a nightclub.  She's too young, of course, to legally enter, but everyone turns a blind eye for the heir to the Empire.  Tatooine was hard on Leia.  The vibrant young girl always preferred the teeming masses and frenetic energy of Coruscant to austere silence of Tatooine.  Leia has always preferred her father's company.  

The thought does not wound Padmé as much as it once might have.  She understands now that it is the inherent likeness that draws Leia and her father to one another.  Their similar dispositions just as easily could have put them vehemently at odds with one another.  Padmé would not have wanted that.  She is grateful that they have one another, that they can look to each other and see their own reflection.  She thinks perhaps Leia is the only thing that keeps him human.

Their transport takes them from the landing platforms to the Senate apartment buildings.  They enter her apartment and Threepio makes conversation while Typho stands at attention.  Padmé allows her gaze to wander, pulling back the hood of her cloak as Mehht does the same.   

The interior is just as she remembers.  Obviously, he's kept the apartment maintained. The view is every bit as impressive as it ever was.  Padmé takes a deep breath and despite the sense of unease pulling at her insides, she knows she is finally home.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

 "Are you sure she'll come?" Mehht asks, staring out Padmé's bedroom window at the vast array of lights that illuminate Coruscant's night sky.  "It is rather late."    
  
The trip from Tatooine was long and they’ve both spent the last week so tightly wound they could barely breathe.  The only thing either of them want is to sleep.  But that luxury won’t be available until some basic necessities are procured.    
  
"She will come," Padmé answers matter-of-factly, pulling the brush absently through her long tresses.  "No one would dare to say no to the Empress."  The words are uttered with more than a little bitter irony.  She hates that title and before today, she had never used it.   
  
Mehht frowns and turns.  She heads for the door, bound for the living room to inspect the panoramic view.  Mehht has never been away from Tatooine.  The fact that she is here at all is somewhat of a miracle.  Natives of Tatooine are not known for their wanderlust – yet another way that Padmé's husband has always distanced himself from his peers.    
  
Mehht Whitesun is Beru’s niece, the only daughter of Beru’s older brother.  Mehht came to live at the Lars farmstead outside Anchorhead four seasons ago following her fiancé’s untimely death.  She is bright but plainspoken and loyal to a fault.   
  
“Padmé,” Mehht says from the doorway, flanked by Threepio, “she’s arrived.”  Mehht frowns and then chews briefly on her bottom lip.  “Should I call you ‘my lady’?” she asks.  
  
Padmé smiles gently.  They’ve shared their tiny room for four years, their pallets laid out neatly side by side.  They are closer, in some ways, than Padmé ever was to her sister, Sola. “That won't be necessary,” she says.    
  


* * *

  
  
“It will take a week for the entire order, but I can have several garments sent over by morning,” the woman says, addressing both Padmé and Mehht.  The woman’s name is Jahzia Soh.  She is Falleen, so it is difficult to judge her age, but her careful manner and successful business are great indicators that she’s been around long enough to know how to keep her head down.  She is one of the most sought after designers in the Empire, just as she was in the Republic before its demise.    
  
“I am very thankful for the special accommodation, Lady Soh,” Padmé answers.  
  
“Please do not thank me, my lady.  It is my honor.”  For a moment, Jahzia’s impeccable façade cracks and Padmé knows that she is truly grateful to see her.  When Padmé was a Senator, Jahzia designed many of her gowns.  It has been years since they have spoken.   
  
Padmé’s smoothes her hands over the threadbare material of her tunic.  "I will have payment transferred to your accounts tonight," she assures Lady Soh.  
  
Jahzia bows as she takes her leave.  
  
Padmé rubs the material of her tunic gently between her fingers.  She is dressed in attire suitable for a moisture farmer in the Outer Rim – which is what she is.  Mehht and Padmé share the same vocation.  Their outfits are similar, both made by hand from sturdy fibers the same dull beige as Tatooine’s Dune Sea.    
  
Padmé is not ashamed of her clothing.  On the contrary, she’s proud of it.  She created it with her own hands for her own simple purposes.  It has seen her through many seasons.  Like the calluses on her hands, the clothes are something she came by honestly, through hard work and sacrifice.  For year upon year she has helped with the farm knowing that her role means the difference between having enough food on the table and feeling the pains of hunger.  
  
But her attire, no matter how hard won, is now inappropriate.  For as much as Padmé wishes she could remain a moisture farmer, she now has to rise to a station to which she never aspired.  She has to become the Empress.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Oh, thank the maker.”  Threepio is almost bursting with joy at the fact that his battered plating has been replaced with a new bronze skin that gleams brightly in the morning light.  As is the custom on Naboo, Padmé has always treated Threepio – or any other sentient droid – as a person.  But from time to time, she does marvel at him.  He is so very human.  And fussy.  She has never seen any other droid so thoroughly obsessed with propriety and creature comforts.    
  
It is difficult to reconcile Threepio’s quirks with the man who was his maker. She supposes that all sentient life must share certain characteristics – whether droid or child.  You can lay down the foundation as meticulously as possible, but there is still so much of it beyond your control.    
  
Mehht is staring out the window, captivated by the pace of life on Coruscant.  She notices Padmé watching her and blushes, turning away from the view of the morning rush hour.  “Sorry,” she says.  “It’s just so different.  It’s hard to imagine you living here.”  
  
Padmé thinks about it for a moment, looking at the same landscape that so captivates Mehht.  In the early morning light that streams through the breakfast room's windows, the towering buildings gleam like flame.  “It’s hard for me to imagine it too,” she admits.  “It was a long time ago.”  She reaches across the table and pours more caf into Mehht’s cup as well as her own.  It’s much stronger than the tea they drink at home, but it has been expertly brewed and she can’t resist having a little more.  
  
Neither she nor Mehht slept well the previous night.  The apartment’s papered walls and plush carpets discomfortingly muffle sounds and disorient their senses of space and balance.   The beds which were merely functional years ago now seem lavish beyond reason, so soft both Padmé and Mehht found rest elusive.  Earlier in the morning, Padmé spent at least half an hour staring at her closet wondering how on earth she ever owned enough gowns and frivolous adornments to occupy the entire space.  It’s not exactly a line of reasoning she needs to be embracing at this juncture.  She knows she needs to shed her life in Tatooine if she has any hope of matching wits with what remains of the man she loved.    
  
They hear the male Twi’lek's heavy footfalls before he enters the room.  His skin is a deep crimson.  Lethan Twi’lek are rare, males moreso than females.  He would probably be famous even if he weren’t infamous.  “My lady,” he says, inclining his head deferentially as one corpulent lekku slips over his shoulder.  
  
“Korto,” she replies.  Padmé knows there must be an army of servants that tend to the Emperor's needs.  Korto is in charge of them.  Her stomach nearly turns at the thought of how very dangerous a creature of his proclivities is in a position of such power.  Times are very tough in this brave new world her husband has created.  A position, any position, within the Emperor's private staff would be highly coveted.  From his perch, Korto can exploit hundreds if not thousands of individuals.  
  
"I trust that your journey went well," he says, glancing at Mehht.  
  
Padmé's gut reaction is to tell him that their journey was none of his concern, but she holds her tongue.  This is not the time for such honest conversation.  Her diplomatic skills may not have been valued in any official capacity for years, but she uses them often in the course of her marriage.    
  
"Very well," she says.  Her words are perfectly polite, but her tone is colder than the surface of a planetoid in the Hoth system.    
  
He knows well he has already overstayed his welcome.  He looks at the floor rather than meeting her gaze.  He may be repulsive, but he is not stupid.  He will not provoke her. "My lord bids me ensure your comfort in all things," he replies.  
  
"We are quite comfortable," she informs him.  
  
"My lord – "  
  
"That will be all, Korto." Her tone leaves no room for argument and he merely bows again before leaving the room.  Threepio follows him, escorting him from her apartment.  
  
Mehht looks at her with an expression somewhere between confusion and amusement.  Padmé knows why.  Mehht has never seen her like this, hiding behind her potent political armor.  It's happening already.  This is one of the reasons she stayed away so long.    
  
She cannot live in his world without becoming something cold and mechanical.    
  
Padmé smiles warmly at Mehht.  "I'm sorry," she says.  "I find Korto … unsettling."  
  
Mehht smiles gently in return and some of her unease slips away.  "I understand," she says.  
  
Padmé accepts her empathy, but in her heart, she knows that Mehht does not understand.  Mehht can't.  Padmé hardly understands it herself.  Korto is physically repulsive to be certain.  But Padmé has lived on the Hutt homeworld for more than a decade.  It isn't the Twi'lek's physical proportions that unsettle her.  It isn't even his abhorrent personality.  Point of fact, her problem with Korto has very little to do with Korto himself.  He's a deviant, a power hungry bottom-feeder, but if he were anyone else, she could look past him.  
  
But Korto isn't anyone else.  He's the Emperor's right hand.  This vile, disgusting, amoral parasite is the closest thing the Emperor has to a friend.  
  
It's that thought that wounds Padmé so deeply.  
  
She should be beyond this emotion.  Her husband has committed so many atrocities in the name of peace that she should have given up.  Her faith should be depleted.  But it isn't.    
  
Anakin Skywalker was never a solitary creature.  That was his biggest failing as a Jedi.  He could never muster the indifference they required.  Of course, The Order wrapped their propaganda in grand themes, preferring to call their detachment by the more palatable name of  _compassion_.  But she doubts now more than ever that it is even possible to embody compassion while shunning attachment.  The two are inseparable.  That core belief put the Order at odds with itself.    
  
Padmé tries to turn her thoughts away.  She has spent so much time – years – blaming the Jedi Order.  She remembers the first time Anakin told her about the prophecy, that the Jedi believed him to be the Chosen One.  Of course Anakin believed it as well, he has always viewed himself as more than human, more than a Jedi.  But for all of Anakin's arrogance, he couldn't even begin to approach the epic proportions the ego of the Jedi Order itself possessed.  They were so self-righteous, so self-important that they chose to believe that balance in the universe was somehow intertwined with their own longevity and glory.  They were blind to the fact that they themselves were quite possibly what had thrown the natural order of the Force out of alignment.  
  
Shadows exist only in the presence of light and the brighter the light, the deeper and darker those shadows.  The Jedi Order existed for thousands of years, gaining ever more influence, territory and power.  They should have seen it coming.  They should have at least suspected that by balancing the force, Anakin would have to do something that wouldn't be in their own best interest.  
  
The logic is so circular it makes Padmé's head ache – and heart.  Perhaps the Jedi did suspect that Anakin was somehow, at his core, at odds with them.  Perhaps that's why he distrusted them, why it was so easy for Chancellor Palpatine to insinuate himself in Anakin’s life, play on his fears and widen that rift.    
  
Padmé remembers her life as a younger woman, first as Queen, then as the Nubian Ambassador.  She had the utmost respect for The Jedi Order.  It hurts her to have these thoughts, these emotions toward them.  For the longest time she – like a large portion of the galaxy's inhabitants – lived in awe of the Jedi Knights, of the Jedi Temple, of all of its trappings.  Even after her involvement with Anakin provided a closer view, she never truly questioned.  
  
It wasn't until Anakin's fall, until the death of her beloved Republic, and most importantly, the birth of her children, that she took a closer look. Luke and Leia undoubtedly inherited some measure of their father's power.  In her self-imposed exile on Tatooine, she became a student of Jedi lore and history. The closer she looked, the harsher her scrutiny.  

* * *

  
  
Mehht tsks under her breath, shaking her head as Padmé folds the note and tucks it into the cloak's inner pocket.  "Children need to have more respect," Mehht says.  
  
Padmé smiles softly, stepping through the doors and into the Galaxies Opera House's opulent lobby.  Leia was supposed to meet them here, but sent a note explaining that she was unavoidably detained.  Padmé doesn't even want to know what that means coming from a sixteen year old girl with the figurative (and possibly literal) keys to the kingdom.    
  
She isn't surprised, on the contrary, she was surprised when Leia agreed to attend.  Padmé suspects it was because they took Leia off guard.  For whatever reason, Leia was unaware of her mother's arrival and was visibly shocked when she walked into the private arboretum earlier that afternoon to find Padmé and Mehht inspecting the grounds.  Padmé doesn't know what to make of Leia's ignorance.  It is unexpected.  She assumed that Leia would have been informed of her arrival well in advance by her father.  She wasn't.    
  
"Oh my," Mehht breathes, staring up at the grand chandelier.  
  
Padmé glances at Mehht.  Despite Mehht's earlier pronouncement on the deportment of children, Mehht isn't much older than Leia.   Twenty.  Had Mehht's fiancé not died, Mehht would most certainly be considered a woman by Tatooine's standards.  She would have been the head of her household with several children under foot, a farm to manage and a household budget to watch.    
  
"I forget how grandiose things are here," Padmé explains, glancing around the lobby, trying to remember the first time she was here.  The night feels both foreign and familiar.  She has enjoyed dozens of performances here, but it was all so long ago.  
  
Mehht accompanied Padmé to Coruscant ostensibly to act as a handmaiden, but Mehht's life experience is woefully inadequate to prepare her as an Imperial handmaiden.  Shortly after their arrival on Coruscant, Padmé contacted her former handmaiden, Dormé.  Dormé's daughter Kore and another young woman, Sullee attended both Padmé and Mehht.    
  
Both women spent the better part of the day in Padmé's apartment being plucked and primped, massaged and moisturized until they bore little resemblance to the Outer Rim moisture farmers who arrived three days previous.    
  
Lady Soh's gowns were delivered as promised and Padmé's is reminded exactly why Lady Soh is worth the staggering amount of credits she demands.  The gowns are stunning to be certain, but more than that, they capture Padmé’s mood.  These aren't the flirty, coquettish gowns she favored during her time on Naboo with Anakin, nor are they the more stately, matronly style she preferred as a married woman during the Clone Wars.  They most certainly don't resemble the formal ceremonial attire she donned as a Queen.  The gowns encompass a dazzling array of colors, fabrics and styles, yet they all suit her perfectly.  They neither flaunt nor hide.  They are beautiful without being ostentatious.  These are the gowns of a woman, classic and ageless with a simplicity that speaks not to others’ expectations, but to Padmé’s truth.    
  
The gown she has chosen to wear tonight is shimmersilk in an indigo so deep it appears black.  The intricate beading that decorates the neckline glitters under the chandeliers.  Her body is firm and lithe from years of demanding manual labor and while the gown does not expose much skin, it hugs the contours of her womanly form in a manner that is quite complementary.  The sleeves are long and the hem would touch the ground were she not wearing the delicate, black, heeled sandals that make her a full two inches taller than her natural height.  She decided against wearing a cloak despite the fact that she now finds the temperature of Coruscant uncomfortably cool.  
  
Just like her threadbare tunic, the simply braided hairstyle that served Padmé so well for so long is no longer appropriate.  Her long tresses are pulled into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck.  Strands of thin, black, shimmering ribbon are woven through the knot, occasionally catching the light and glittering like jewels.  
  
Padmé could not help but linger over her reflection in the mirror.  She doesn't recognize herself.  That scares her more than she cares to admit.  
  
Mehht shifts uneasily and Padmé cannot help but smile.  Even in her much simpler gown of unadorned rose colored Lashaa silk, Mehht is obviously ill at ease.  She is not accustomed to this opulence and she accepts change with the begrudging wariness that is seemingly hard wired into most of Tatooine's inhabitants.    
  
As Padmé's eyes wander the lobby, she notices that little by little, the crowded room's conversation falls off and heads turn her direction.  A few moments later it is painfully obvious that the entire room is staring at her.    
  
She stands there, using every bit of influence she has over her autonomic nervous system to will her cheeks not to flame.  It has been so long since she was in the spotlight and even then, she was rarely inspected with such unbridled scrutiny and rabid curiosity.  She wonders what everyone is thinking as they stare at the Emperor's long absent wife.  She knows most of them suspected she was dead.  
  
A man clears his throat loudly and Padmé turns her head to see him pushing his way through the crowd toward her.  He towers over most of them, his profile is unmistakable, even at a distance.  Like a group of chastised children, most of the onlookers turn away, parting before him.  He reaches for her hands and she extends them gratefully.  "Padmé."  
  
"Bail," she says and try as she might, she can't prevent the slight crack in her voice.  She didn't expect this well of emotion.  She is so grateful for his rescue, but she is almost overwhelmed at the sense of longing she has from merely glancing at him.  He is such an immediate reminder of her forgotten life.  
  
"I can't believe you're here," he says.  "I heard so many rumors."  
  
"Padmé?"  Breha pulls her into an embrace before Padmé has a chance to respond.  The two women hug each other tightly and unbidden tears glisten in Padmé's eyes.  She knows better than to allow them to fall in such a public place.    
  
As they finally pull away, Padmé quickly blinks back the tears, smiling gratefully at her friends.  "I missed you both so much," she says softly.  
  
"We feared the worst," Bail admits gravely.  Padmé takes in the deep creases in his brow, the streaks of silver in his hair.  He is still a strong man, physically and mentally, but she can see how the years have worn on him.  
  
"I'm well," Padmé assures him and is more than a little shocked to realize she means it.  
  
"How long have you been on Coruscant?" Breha presses.  "Why didn't you contact us the moment you arrived?"  
  
"We arrived three nights ago," Padmé explains, introducing Mehht to Senator and Queen Organa.  She smiles wryly.  "I didn't want to make a production of my return," she says.  Her expression turns wry.  "Obviously I failed spectacularly in that."  
  
Bail cynically raises an eyebrow.  "You're married to the Emperor," he says.  "There's no way that a reaction could have been avoided."  
  
Bail gives her a glance that Padmé chooses to ignore.  Even after sixteen years, she still knows that look well – though this is the first time she's found herself on the receiving end.  It's a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.  As much as it hurts, Padmé accepts it as her due.  She is married to a dictator and rather than stand and fight him, she has been hiding in the Outer Rim for the last decade and a half.  Of course Bail questions her motives and her unexpected re-appearance.    
  
Bail undoubtedly wants to know the state of affairs between the Emperor and his Empress.  Padmé has no intention of having that conversation yet when she has no idea herself.   And she is in no hurry for Senator Organa to remind her of her long neglected duties to a Republic which no longer exists.    
  
She long ago ceased to be a Senator or public servant.    
  
Padmé knows that Bail wants to hear that truth even less than she wants to admit it.    
  


* * *

  
  
The restaurant, Te, specializes in Anderaanian cuisine and is unfamiliar to Padmé.  For all its lavish appointments, it's much like any other chic eatery.  Situated on the highest levels of one of Galactic City's skyscrapers, it provides a breathtaking view and plenty of atmosphere.  The lights are dim and the food exquisite.  The interior of the restaurant is designed to provide patrons with the maximum amount of privacy.  Te can afford to sacrifice occupancy limits in exchange for exorbitant prices.  
  
Breha and Bail are incredibly kind to Mehht, going out of their way to include in her in the conversations both at the Opera House and at Te.   They chat amiably and it gives Padmé a chance to quietly reflect on how substantially things have changed in her absence.  She sips the spiced steamed wine slowly, savoring its decadent flavors.  She tries to block out everything save that one pleasure.  Bail often shoots her glances across the table and Padmé does her best to avoid meeting them.    
  
By now news of her return will be all over HoloNet.  Typho will not be pleased.  He bolstered her security before they departed for the Opera House and by tomorrow morning, she knows that there will be dozens of guards in her detail.  Though the dedicated professionals accommodate her privacy as much as possible, their goal is not her peace of mind, but rather her physical safety.  The two are often at odds.    
  
Padmé quietly excuses herself from the table and makes her way to the sumptuously decorated facilities.  She is ordered, rather than asked, to wait outside momentarily while the security officers make sure she is alone.  Once that is done, she is given a modicum of privacy in the women’s lounge.  
  
This is difficult.  
  
Years of living on Tatooine have stripped away her armor.  She has forgotten what it's like to live under a microscope, to have her every move scrutinized through security cameras and comlinks.  The invasion of privacy feels like a physical assault.  She doesn't know how she ever accepted this as a facet of normal life.  
  
Tears prick her eyes and she tries to will them away.  She knew this was going to be taxing.  She knew she would have to sacrifice the ignorance in which she cocooned herself.    
  
She braces her hands against the cold stone vanity.  She stares at herself in the mirror.  Her hair is dark, the few strands of gray that were there a week ago are now artfully hidden behind chemical colors.  The tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and lips have almost been pampered into oblivion – but not quite.   Her face is thin verging on gaunt.  She has been unable to eat for weeks, her nerves wrung too thin with worry and apprehension. But the old saying holds true that you can never be too thin or too rich and she suspects few will find fault in the way her cheekbones press against her skin.    
  
She drops her gaze, staring down at her hands.  Her hands, at least, are the same as always.  Her nails are neatly trimmed, but short and not camouflaged with enamel.  Her fingers and knuckles are marred in many places by shiny, pale scars.  Her hands are her badge of honor, proof that she has worked for something in this life.  The scars on her heart, though infinitely more painful, are far less visible.  
  
She starts to sigh, but stops, holding in the breath as the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end and something cold prickles up her spine.    
  
She looks into the mirror and meets his gaze.  He’s standing behind her, dressed in his black Jedi robes.  He’s older, harder.  His skin is pale, making the vertical scar across his right eye stand out in harsh relief.  There is nothing soft in him, not the barest hint of innocence.  His hair is clipped ruthlessly short and his face is clean shaven.  His eyes are still a piercing, vibrant blue and he is still handsome enough to make her knees go weak.  
  
She becomes aware that she’s still holding her breath and forces herself to release it, irritated with how shaky it sounds.  She pushes back from the vanity, straightening her spine and holding her head as high as possible.  She makes a show of smoothing down the front of her gown, pretending to take her time.  Slowly, she turns, facing him across the space of several feet.  
  
His eyes rake her over from head to foot and she’s perversely outraged and delighted by the way his lips curve into a wry smile of male appreciation.  He ventures closer.  His robes do not rustle and his booted feet make no noise on the expensive Wayland marble floor tiles.  She is struck again by how much the vibrant, dynamic man she married has become a creature of silence and shadow.  
  
He catches the flow of her emotions in the Force and stops, staring down at her from mere inches away.  His head tilts to the side and he studies her, his expression hard.  She suspects that Lord Vader is not accustomed to sensing pity in his prey.  She cannot lie to herself and pretend she is anything other than a conquest to him at this point, a publicly pointed thorn in his pride.  
  
“Anakin – “  Her voice echoes loudly in the tiled room.  
  
He frowns at her and takes a step backward before apparently thinking better of retreating and stands his ground.  “I don’t use that name,” he says matter-of-factly.  
  
She looks at him, shunning her politician’s training and not bothering to try and hide any of the exasperation and irritation she feels.  “I will not address you as _my lord_ ,” she informs him curtly.  
  
His expression is unreadable for several moments and she’s truly afraid that the Emperor’s notorious temper might manifest itself physically.  But eventually his lips curve into a smile of genuine amusement.  For a moment he looks like her Anakin, baiting her to get a response and then teasing her mercilessly.  “I would expect not,  _Senator_ ,” he says.  He's always had a way of saying that word that encompasses the thousand generations of contempt the Jedi Order held for politicians.  
  
She purses her lips at him, a look of censure he knows well.  “Is there still a Senate?” she asks acidly.  “I thought perhaps you had disbanded it.”  
  
He doesn’t take the bait, instead smiling at her with a cool, knowing expression.  “All in good time,” he says.  
  
She rolls her eyes and sighs, stepping away from him to pace around the lounge.  She doesn’t like that smile. It’s not one of Anakin’s smiles.  That cruel twisting of flesh and muscle is purely a product of Lord Vader and she wants nothing to do with it.  For all his faults, Anakin always wore his heart on his sleeve.  He was always readable – despite his secretive nature - often unable to contain the sheer volume of his emotions.  But the cold, calculating man before her does not share those shortcomings.  He is guarded, elusive and undeniably dangerous.  She retreats nearly to the other end of the room before turning to face him.  “How exactly am I supposed to address you?” she demands.  
  
He smiles again, that same bland, slightly condescending twisting of his lips that gives her no insight into what he feels.  “Address me however you like,  _wife_ ,” he says.  “Your words will not change anything.”  
  
She straightens her spine and meets his gaze.  They’ll see about that.  “I must return to the table,” she says.  
  
His bow is slightly mocking.  “But of course.  Give my best to Queen and Senator Organa.”  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time they leave the restaurant, Typho’s complement of security guards has been bolstered by a dozen Imperial soldiers dressed in crisp black uniforms.  Mehht is obviously confused, but Bail shoots Padmé a knowing glance.    
  
“You were in the lounge for quite some time,” he says pointedly.  
  
“I ran into someone,” she replies blandly, her gaze shifting away from his.  
  
He is quiet and rather than finding anger in his eyes, he seems sad.  Imperial soldiers approach and Bail doesn't flinch as they demand to see his documentation.  How many times has he been detained, she wonders.  How many fists have knocked on their door in the middle of the night?  Anakin was never one to be subtle and in her absence, Senator Bail Organa must have made a convenient target for his frustrations.  
  
The doubt that has been with Padmé for weeks solidifies into a hard lump in her chest.  What if Luke was wrong?  What if there is nothing that can be done to save Anakin, to make him see reason and the catastrophe about to befall them all?  
  
Padmé tries to regroup, to find her center, her faith.  Luke is wise beyond his years and since his early childhood, he has been her touchstone.  If anyone could see the good in Anakin, it's Luke.   
  
She does not doubt Luke.  What she doubts is her own ability to reach Anakin.  She fears her presence may only provoke him, strengthening his resistance to their cause.  


	3. Sins of the Father

Artoo’s squawking wakes Padmé from her restless sleep moments before Typho pounds on her bedroom door.    
    
“Milady!  Milady!” he bellows.  “There is an intruder.”   
    
There is a rustle and Padmé sweeps her eyes to the side.  She sees the cloaked form standing in the shadows and her heart catches in her throat for a moment.   
    
Ironically, it’s Artoo that sets her mind at ease.  He’s rolled himself into the middle of the room, positioned between Padmé and the trespasser.  Unceremoniously, he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a child blowing a raspberry and quickly retracts his various sensors.  Padmé watches as he returns to his post in the corner of the room, obviously unconcerned.   
    
Padmé doesn’t need to be Force sensitive to know who is standing in the middle of her bedroom just as dawn is beginning to turn the sky pink.  “Do you want me to ask the cook to make Muja muffins?” she asks blandly.  “I think she was planning to make lamta, but I know you don’t like that.”   
    
The irritated sigh is so quintessentially that of a teenage girl, that Padmé has to stop herself from smiling.  A smile will most certainly not be appreciated by her visitor.  Padmé learned long ago that Leia is just as mercurial as her father, and her temper is just as easily provoked.  Padmé desperately hopes it's a stage out of which her daughter will eventually mature.   
    
“It’s all right, Captain,” Padmé calls toward the door where she suspects Typho is now looking for a cutting torch.    
    
“Milady?”  He sounds unconvinced.   
    
“It’s just Leia,” she explains.   
    
Padmé does smile this time because despite the closed door separating them, she can clearly hear the stream of curses Captain Typho mutters under his breath.  Leia has always excelled at pushing the man’s patience to the very limit.   
    
"You could have used the door," Padmé says gently, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rising to stand.   
    
Leia's only answer is a derisive snort.   
    
As Padmé pulls her own pale blue robe on over her nightgown, Leia shrugs out of her black nanosilk cloak.    
    
Padmé turns away so Leia won't see the frown the tugs at her lips.  Leia is dressed in black from head to toe.  Synthleather pants hug tightly to her hips and buttocks.  Though the long sleeved, high-necked shirt should be sufficiently modest, it's not, due to the fact that it's made from semi-transparent zoosha fabric.  Her ruggedly constructed boots appear to be more suited to combat than sneaking around the Senate apartment buildings.    
    
It's obvious that Leia has been out all night.  Padmé bites her lip to stop herself from demanding to know what havoc Leia has wrought.  Leia is her daughter and in Padmé's eyes, still very much a child.  Padmé is all too aware of the immense amount of maturation that still remains to be done.  But Padmé also remembers that by this age, she had already served two years as Queen.  At sixteen, Anakin was a Padawan learner and faced any number of dangers alongside his mentor.    
    
Leia is pacing around the room like a caged nexu.  Padmé knows it's far better to wait for her daughter to speak than to push her, so she walks into her closet, searching for attire.  She pulls out a simple pair of pants and matching top in a sage green.  The material is delectably soft and though it wouldn't be suitable for public, it is more than sufficient for breaking her fast in the privacy of her own apartment.  She quickly changes into the garments.   
    
"You missed a fine performance last night," Padmé says lightly.   
    
"I suppose Mehht was all with the  _oohs_  and the  _ahhs_  over the running water and electricity," Leia counters scornfully.   
    
This one, Padmé doesn't let slide.  Slowly, she pivots around and fixes her daughter with a positively withering expression.  Somewhat to Padmé's surprise, Leia has the decency to look chastised.  "I do believe Mehht enjoyed it as well," Padmé says.  "You can ask her at breakfast."   
    
Padmé knows that Leia would love nothing more than to refuse.  However, for all of Leia's independent and rebellious nature, there is still something of a little girl in her that isn't quite ready to leave the nest entirely.   
    
Leia flops down onto the unmade bed, unlacing her boots and crawling under the covers.  "I don't want lamta," she whines pitifully.   
    
Padmé resists the temptation to roll her eyes as she walks to the antique Oro wood vanity near the window.  "Artoo," she says, "please have Threepio request that the cook make Muja muffins this morning."   
    
Artoo's mechanical reply sounds patently disapproving, but he quickly bypasses security on Padme’s bedroom door and wheels himself down the hall in search of his protocol droid counterpart.   
    
Padmé sits down at the vanity and pulls the brush through her hair while studying Leia's reflection in the mirror.  "Chiski was asking about you the other day," she says.   
    
One of Leia's eyebrows arches in an expression that is pure Anakin.  "Where'd you run into him?" she asks, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably.   
    
Padmé smiles.  Chiski Roan is the son of a pourstone merchant back in Anchorhead on Tatooine.  He has been a friend of the twins for as long as Padmé can remember.  In the last several years, Chiski has grown from a charming, rambunctious little boy into a strikingly handsome young man.  Padmé knows she is not the only one who has noticed.   
    
"I rode with Owen to Tosche Station last week," Padmé says.  "Chiski was up there working on a pod racer with Fixer and Biggs."   
    
Leia seems to consider this information for a moment.  Padmé divides her long hair into three strands and quickly braids it with well-practiced motions.   
    
"When are you going home?" Leia asks.   
    
Padmé studies her in the mirror before turning to face her.  "What makes you think I'm going back to Tatooine?" she asks.   
    
Leia stares at her blankly for a moment and then shrugs.  "You have Mehht with you," she says.  "You can't tell me that she's moving here."   
    
"No," Padmé agrees, "Mehht is just visiting.  She was kind enough to keep me company on the trip here."   
    
Leia reads between the lines.  "But you're staying?"   
    
"I don't know," Padmé admits, rising to her feet and pacing to the window.  The high-speed air travel lanes are already packed with the morning rush.  She leans her forehead against the transparisteel window.  “Perhaps I could be of some good here,” she says wistfully.  “Mehht and I had dinner with Senator Organa and his wife last night.  Bail mentioned that he and Mon Mothma are inundated with work.  Perhaps I could do something to help them.”   
    
“ _Oh_.”  Padmé turns in time to see Leia’s smug grin on her face.    
    
“What?” Padmé asks warily.   
    
“You didn’t by any chance run into my father last night did you?” she asks in a knowing tone.   
    
Padmé studies her daughter for several moments before she finally answers.  “Yes.”   
    
Leia nods and sits up in bed, scooting to the edge and then rising to her feet.  “He was in  _fine_  form last night,” she says sardonically.  “I wondered what set him off.”   
    
Padmé doesn’t want to ask.  She has gone out of her way for years to not put the twins between her and Anakin.  But she can’t help herself.  “What was he doing?” she asks.   
    
Leia shrugs.  Absently, she reaches out with the Force and summons a Sepp crystal ballerina figurine from Padme’s vanity.  “Yelling mostly,” she says blandly, moving her hand and causing the figurine to pirouette gracefully in mid air.  No doubt by this point, both Leia and Luke are generally inured to their father’s temper.  “He was trying to contact Luke.  Lieutenant Veers was supposed to be keeping tabs on Luke, but when Veers couldn’t find Luke, Dad sort of ... _strangled_  him.”  She looks at Padmé and shrugs.  “A little.” she amends.   
    
Padmé’s spirits fall.  This is the man she’s supposed to be reaching out to, the one who is enraged by a simple dinner she had with old friends and takes out his fury on his underlings.    
    
Easily reading her mother’s emotions, Leia adds, “Veers will be fine.”   
    
Padmé frowns at her daughter.  “That doesn’t excuse the behavior, Leia.”   
    
Leia rolls her eyes, convinced her mother is overly sensitive.    
    
Padmé wonders again at the futility of her actions.   
  

* * *

  
    
“Kore and Sullee found the trunks you were asking about,” Mehht says, absently blowing a curling tendril of blondish brown hair out of her green eyes.  She’s standing in Padme’s sitting room, hands on her hips.  They’ve spent hours sorting through closets and storage rooms.   
    
“Did they open it yet?” Padmé asks.  Like Mehht, she’s once again dressed in her simple beige tunic.  It’s appropriate for the messy task of sorting through things that haven’t been touched in years, but it is also as comforting as it is comfortable.    
    
“They didn’t say,” Mehht replies.  “You know,” she says pointedly, “it would be easier to find things if you’d tell us what we’re looking for.”   
    
Mehht has a very valid point, but Padmé doesn’t feel like sharing.  “I’m just looking,” she says evasively.  Kneeling on the carpeted floor, she continues to sort through the box of papers in her lap.  “Maybe we’ll find something useful.”   
    
“Useful,” Mehht parrots doubtfully.  “As far as I can tell, when you were a Senator you didn’t own a single useful thing.”   
    
From Mehht’s point of view, the statement is most certainly true.  On Tatooine, a woman is expected to have any number of useful tools in her possession.  With a climate so harsh and changeable that it will quickly kill the unprepared, life sustaining paraphernalia are an absolute necessity.  However, Padmé wonders if Mehht’s outlook might not be a bit different had her fiancé not perished so early in their courtship.  A married woman needs any number of tools and at times, the ones made of silk and lace can be just as useful as durasteel and multitools.   
    
“Senator Amidala was surprisingly resourceful even without a utility belt.”   
    
Padmé and Mehht both startle, turning toward the door.  Anakin is standing there, once again dressed in his black robes of zeyd-cloth and leather.  His eyes meet Padmé’s and hold them for several long moments before he turns his attention to Mehht.   
    
“You must be Mehht Whitesun,” he says.   
    
Mehht opens her mouth to speak, but then shuts it and nods quickly.  On the Lars homestead, the Emperor is not often discussed unless the twins are recounting a specific incident.  But even in the Outer Rim, his reputation is well known.  Mehht is terrified.   
    
“Mehht,” Padmé says gently, “please find Kore and Sullee and ask them to move the trunk to my bedroom.”  Grateful for the reprieve, Mehht nearly runs from the room.   
    
Padmé turns her attention back to Anakin to find him smiling cruelly at Mehht’s retreating form.  He looks back to her and his smile fades under her withering glare.    
    
“It is quite beyond me,” she says hotly, “why the Emperor would go out of his way to terrorize an anonymous young woman from the Outer Rim.”   
    
“Oh, come now, Padmé,” he says, his voice rife with condescension, “she’s hardly anonymous.  By all accounts Mehht Whitesun is the best friend and closest confidant of Empress Skywalker.  You can’t really think I would consider her beyond my notice.”   
    
Padmé catches Typho out of the corner of her eye.  He’s standing in the hallway, ready to intercede instantly if she wishes.  Padmé’s cheeks turn pink with shame.  She is often appalled, but rarely shocked by Anakin’s behavior.  However, knowing other people see this side of him humiliates her.  This is the man to whom she pledged her heart.  This is the father of her children.   
    
Perhaps Typho senses her shame and takes pity – or perhaps he’s interested in self-preservation.  Either way, he retreats down the hall, leaving Padmé and the Emperor in private.   
    
She sets down the box she’s holding and folds her hands in her lap.  She stares blindly at the Japor snippet she has worn around her left wrist for the last eighteen years.  “Why are you doing this, Anakin?” she asks quietly.   
    
He doesn’t answer.  Instead, he crosses the room.  He stands in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, back ramrod straight.  His head is held high.  From what she can see of his profile, his chin juts out defiantly.  He stares out the window, surveying his empire.   
    
“Why are you here?” he asks without turning to face her.   
    
“Do you wish me to leave?” she counters.   
    
He turns to her, lips pursed tightly.  He’s always hated it when she answers a question with a question.  “I didn’t say that,” he replies.   
    
With far more grace than should be possible, Padmé rises to her feet, refusing to kneel before him.  She smoothes down the front of her tunic and Anakin’s eyes follow the movements of her hands.  He stares at her clothing for a long moment, his expression a strange mixture of irritation and pleasure that makes no sense to Padmé.   
    
He forces his attention away from her garments and back to her face.  “You are welcome here for as long as you like,” he says.  “You have  _always_  been welcome here.”   
    
She tilts her head to the side and studies him for a moment.  He accepts the scrutiny in silence, but it’s all for naught.  She has no more insight into him or his motives than she had last night at Te.   
    
“And if I care to assume a more formal role?” she asks.   
    
He smiles Lord Vader’s cold, empty smile.  “Whatever you wish, my love.”   
  

* * *

  
    
"All of them?" Padmé asks incredulously.   
    
Senator Bail Organa looks at her from his position across the room.  "Yes," he says solemnly.  He locates the datapad for which he has been searching and returns to the conference room table where he and Padmé are sorting through literally mounds of refugee relocation paperwork.  The volume of work to be done is staggering.   
    
“There’s no formal governing board for these requests?” she asks.   
    
“There’s an Office of Displaced Populations,” he replies.  “But they’re under staffed and under motivated.  They’re more of a hindrance than a help.  We lost almost three hundred thousand refugees in the Bajic sector last year after a biohazard contamination.  ODP dragged their heels so long that we had nearly a hundred percent fatality.”   
    
“Who is responsible for this?” Padmé demands.  The obvious answer, of course, is the Emperor.  However, Padmé knows – as does Bail – that Anakin does not concern himself with a good portion of the Empire’s daily grind.   
    
“Mas Amedda and Orn Free Taa,” Bail says gravely.  “They’re corrupt to the core, both of them.  And they’re left largely to their own devices.”   
    
Bail looks at Padmé and the unspoken request nearly reverberates in the air.   _Do something._    
   
Padmé looks away, staring blindly out the window.  Slowly, she nods.   
  


	4. Chapter 4

Mehht stares at Padmé.  They’re in Padmé’s bedroom.  Padmé’s vision flickers over the trunk that Kore and Sullee moved earlier in the afternoon.  It feels like a lifetime ago.  After Anakin’s predictably abrupt departure, Bail asked Padmé to meet him at his Senatorial offices.  They spent hours sifting through refugee paperwork and barely managed to scratch the surface.  
  
Padmé hoped to return to her apartment, soak in the luxury of her bathtub and then collapse into sleep.  However, she returned to find Mehht pacing the halls, contacting transport companies to secure a return passage to Tatooine.  After Anakin’s deplorable treatment of the young woman and Padmé’s regrettable yet unavoidable desertion, Padmé doesn’t fault Mehht for wanting to go home.  
  
“You don’t need me here,” Mehht says firmly.  “Kore and Sullee are more than capable of serving as your handmaidens.”  
  
“They are, yes,” Padmé agrees, “but I asked you to come here as a friend.”  
  
Mehht sighs and sits down on the corner of the bed.  “Padmé,” she says gently, “I love you like a sister.  I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few years, but you have friends here.  Important friends.  Friends who can help you with your official duties and friends who know which fork to use at a fancy restaurant.”  
  
Tears prick Padmé’s eyes and this time she allows them to wet her cheeks.  She crosses the few steps to Mehht and sits down next to her on the bed.  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.  “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you being thrown into the chaos of my life here.”  
  
Guilt instantly softens Mehht’s features.  “Padmé,” she says gently, taking Padmé’s hand.  “I don’t mean to complain.  I just feel so ...  _useless_  here.”  
  
Padmé smiles through her tears.  “Mehht, trust me, you could never be useless.”  
  
A wry smile lights Mehht’s face.  “I don’t know,” she says dryly.  “I’m not sure knowing how to cure bantha hide is a particularly useful skill in Galactic City.”  
  
Padmé laughs.  “Maybe not,” she agrees, “but you are very useful  _to me_.”  She takes a deep breath and squeezes Mehht’s hand.  “I do have friends here,” she says, “but you’re the only one who really knows me.”  
  
Mehht’s expression sobers and she studies Padmé for several long heartbeats.    
  
“Do I?” Mehht asks carefully.  
  
“Of course,” Padmé answers almost defensively.  
  
Mehht stands and turns to face Padmé again. “I thought I knew you very well,” Mehht says.  “But I don’t understand that man.  And I don’t understand why you’re still married to him.  It makes me wonder if I really do know you at all.”  
  
“You know me,” Padmé says firmly.  
  
Padmé rises to her feet and walks to the window, trying to escape Mehht’s perceptive gaze.  “He’s Luke and Leia’s father,” she says.  “It would be impossible to remove him from my life.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Mehht says skeptically, “but this is the first time you two have seen each other in how long?”  
  
Padmé actually has to do the math.  “A little over fourteen years.”  
  
“Exactly,” Mehht says.  “I don’t know why you don’t just file for divorce yourself.”  
  
“File with whom?” Padmé asks.  Her voice is not unkind, just weary.  “He _is_  the Empire.  It would never be granted.  The paperwork would never be processed.  It would be a death sentence for the legal clerk who dared to enter it into the judicial system records.”  
  
Mehht’s lips purse in a frown.  It’s clear that she deeply disapproves of Lord Vader and of Padmé’s judgment where he is concerned.  Padmé figures she’s earned the disapproval and accepts it as her due.  
  
“After fourteen years, why hasn’t he divorced you?” Mehht presses.  
  
Padmé’s bites her lip to curb the bark of hysterical laughter Mehht’s question threatens to trigger.  “He would never do that,” she says, thinking back to Anakin’s proposal after the Battle of Geonosis.  “He’s compulsively traditional in certain respects.”  
  
Mehht huffs in irritation and all Padmé can think is  _join the club_.    
  
“He wants an Empress,” Padmé says wearily.  “He has  _always_  wanted an Empress.”  
  
“And here you are fourteen years later offering to fill that role,” Mehht says dryly.  
  
“It would appear so,” Padmé agrees with more than a little self-loathing.  
  
Mehht crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Padmé.  “So what does an Empress do?”  
  
“Good, I hope,” Padmé answers.    
  
Mehht’s frown intensifies and Padmé knows Mehht is looking for concrete goals.  “To start with,” she says, “there’s a refugee crisis in Abhean.  Something has to be done to alleviate the suffering.”  
  
“And you can do that?” Mehht asks skeptically.  
  
“I can try,” Padmé answers.  
  
***  
  
Padmé refuses to look at Korto as he leads her through the cavernous hallways of the Imperial Palace.  The castle's sterile opulence is impressive and intimidating, no doubt by design.  Though not Anakin’s design.  Padmé knows that without asking.  She wonders what he thinks of his home.  She imagines it makes him uncomfortable.  Not that he will ever admit it.    
  
Palpatine commissioned the monumental rebuilding of the former Presidential Palace as soon as he crowned himself Emperor.  Being murdered by his own apprentice less than two years later, he never saw its completion.  Padmé doubts that Anakin spared more than a few moments thought about the design of the Imperial Palace, allowing whatever architectural design Palpatine ordered to be completed.  
  
“This way,” Korto says, stepping aside as two uniformed guards pull open a gigantic set of heavy wooden doors that must be at least fifteen feet tall.    
  
Behind the doors is a grand staircase that descends, curving away to the left out of her line of sight.  She can hear voices below and the sounds of a scuffle.  Korto is already forging down the stairs.  She suspects that with his girth it would be difficult, if not impossible, to stop once he started.  She knows he hates ushering her around like this and that makes her smile.  
  
She follows Korto around the stairs’ artful bend and a magnificent ballroom is revealed.  As first a Queen and then a Senator, Padmé is no stranger to grandeur, but this space is truly impressive.  Forty foot high columns of deep blue cortosis ore support a ceiling of intricately hand-carved, highly-polished Fijisi wood.  More richly hued Fijisi wood covers the floor and the entire room is permeated with its subtly alluring scent.  In the far corner of the room is a flowing waterfall.  The room reminds Padmé of the Room of a Thousand Fountains in the now-ruined Jedi Temple.  
  
However impressive the ballroom may be, it is obviously not used to entertain foreign dignitaries.  Knowing Anakin, that is not surprising.  The room appears to have been re-invented as training space.    
  
Oblivious to her arrival, Anakin is sparring with a young human male.  They aren’t using lightsabers, but rather archaic looking weapons similar to a Geonosian static pike.  Both men are bare to the waist, their torsos damp with perspiration.  They wear dark, loose-fitting pants and no shoes.  It’s apparent that they have been sparring for hours.  
  
The weapons are crude and elegant at the same time, long staffs crafted from a heavy metal alloy with a hilt at one end.  There’s a deep metallic thud each time the weapons meet.  The two men battle back and forth, advancing and retreating in a vicious dance.    
  
Anakin’s opponent appears to be a couple of years older than Luke and Leia.  His hair is dark black and matted to his head with sweat.  He’s Anakin’s height with a lean, muscled build.  The young man is well trained in hand to hand combat, but judging from the gash across his ribs and the way he favors his left leg, Padmé is certain that Anakin is the superior combatant.  
  
Anakin doesn’t even appear to be breathing hard.  Much to Padmé's consternation, she can’t help but notice that no matter how impressive his young adversary's physique may be, Anakin's is even more so.  Maturity has added a few pounds to his frame, but in a very aesthetically appealing way.  His shoulders and upper chest are more thickly muscled than they were in his youth, and his firm abdominal muscles still taper to a lean waist.    
  
Korto clears his throat loudly and the two combatants break apart.  Anakin glances over his shoulder as his opponent takes the opportunity to double over, bracing his hands against his knees, fighting to catch his breath.  
  
Anakin stalks over to where Padmé stands with Korto, his bare feet making little noise on the Fijisi wood floor.  He's not impressed and Padmé can almost feel Korto cower despite the fact that the Twi’lek hasn't moved.  
  
"My lord," Korto stammers, still out of breath from lumbering down the stairs, "you instructed me to never keep the Empress waiting."  
  
"Indeed," Anakin bites out.  He sends Korto away with a nod and then waves over two Imperial guards that had been stationed against the wall.  
  
"Get rid of them," he commands.  
  
Padmé watches as the guards walk quickly towards several small cages.  Padmé hadn't noticed either the half dozen cages or the small animals they contained, placed throughout the vast room.    
  
"What are those?" Padmé asks, looking at the furry, lizard-like animals just under half a meter in length.  
  
"Ysalamiri," Anakin replies.  
  
Padmé's furrowed brow is question enough, so he explains, "They repel the Force."  
  
"Oh," Padmé says, now understanding why Anakin was so annoyed with Korto.  He hadn't sensed their arrival.  And that displeased him.  
  
He's a Jedi – or was at one point.  She can't imagine why he would go to the trouble to create an artificial environment devoid of the Force.  Is he truly that perverse?  
  
A servants' door at the far end of the cavernous room clangs shut as the two guards disappear with the ysalamiri.  Anakin extends his hand and summons a towel, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and torso.  
  
Padmé can't help but appreciate his athletic physique.  Anakin catches her watching him and grins at her wolfishly.    
  
Padmé blushes and retreats several steps, giving him her sternest expression.  She doesn't fool him for a second.  Padmé shakes her head as if to clear it.  "Why do you want to repel the Force?" she asks, returning to his earlier comments.  
  
"Because if I don't," he says smugly, "it's nearly impossible to find a suitable opponent."  
  
Padmé suppresses the urge to suggest that had he not murdered his Jedi brethren in cold blood, then perhaps he could find someone adept enough to kick his ass from time to time.  That comment certainly wouldn't help the refugee crisis in Abhean.  
  
"Then he's not your apprentice?" she asks, motioning toward the young man standing several meters away who is not trying particularly hard to be unobtrusive.  
  
The young man catches her gaze and the grin he gives her is lurid, carnal.  He stares at her as if she were standing nude in the middle of the ballroom, rather than wearing her quite modest light gray gown.  Unconsciously, she takes a step closer to Anakin.  
  
"Leave, Kogo."  Anakin's tone is a cold promise of violence.  
  
Seeming to realize he's made a grave mistake, the young man quickly retreats.  Anakin's glare follows until Kogo slips through the servants' door.  
  
Turning back to Padmé, Anakin says, "I don't have an apprentice."  
  
“What is he then?” she asks.  
  
“A member of my staff.”  
  
Padmé studies him for a moment.  “An Imperial assassin?”  
  
Anakin holds her gaze for a heartbeat.  Then another.  “Yes,” he says, "a very talented one.  It will be a shame to lose him."  
  
Padmé momentarily closes her eyes in disgust.  She opens them again.  If she pauses to catalog all of Anakin’s sins, she’ll run screaming back to Tatooine.  None of them have time for that.  "Why no learner?” she presses.  “Because of the Sith tradition of Masters being killed by their apprentices?"   
  
Anakin gives her a cold smile.  "Perhaps."  
  
"And you don't intend to take one?" she asks.  
  
"No."  
  
Padmé stares at him for a moment and he meets her gaze unflinchingly.  "Does Leia know this?" she asks.  
  
Anakin looks away.  He stares at one of the cortosis columns for a moment.  "No," he admits quietly. He meets her gaze and for the first time, she sees something there, some echo of the man she married.  It's quickly extinguished as he turns to retrieve his black under tunic from where it's draped over the banister.  
  
He shrugs into the under tunic, but leaves it open.  Her gaze flicks over his sculpted chest for a moment before settling on his face.  He smiles.  
  
“I know you’re enjoying the view,” he says smugly, “but I doubt you came all the way over here this morning to watch me dress.”  
  
“No,” she says firmly, her lips pulling into a frown.  “I came to discuss some changes I want to make to the Office of Displaced Populations.  Their budget has been cut drastically the last five years.  There’s a brewing crisis in the –“  
  
He silences her by holding up his gloved prosthetic hand.  His flesh and bone hand pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s in acute physical pain.  “Is any of this military?” he asks.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then I don’t care,” he says shortly, dropping his hands and looking at her pointedly.  “You’re the Empress.  Do whatever you want.”  
  
She eyes him warily.  “I want you to guarantee me that.  I won’t extend promises of relief to these people if you or one of your underlings is going to come in and undercut me a moment later.”  
  
He frowns and turns, walking toward the waterfall in the far corner of the room.  His movement forces Padmé to follow if she wishes to continue the conversation.  
  
“I hate politics,” he says.  “And politicians.”  
  
“I hadn’t noticed,” she replies bitterly, trying not to remember a time when he would automatically extend her an exemption to his assessment of politicians.  
  
They reach the water fall and he stands with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the water.  “I expected you to rule at my side.”  There’s a hint of regret, but no maudlin sentiment.  It’s merely a statement of fact.  
  
Padmé has no idea how to respond.  She understands that her ability to help the peoples in need hinges on his good will.  But though her pride may have taken quite the beating, it is not entirely gone.  “I couldn’t,” she says flatly.  
  
“ _Couldn’t_ ,” he repeats.  “Past tense?”  He raises an eyebrow in question.  
  
She doesn’t answer.  
  
“And now?” he presses.  
  
“I don’t know,” she admits.  “Hiding from reality obviously hasn’t helped anything.  Maybe it’s time for me to become part of the solution rather than the problem.”  
  
He looks at her for several long moments before turning back to the water.  “You are the Empress,” he says.  “Rule your Empire the way you see fit.”  He narrows his gaze at her.  “But stay out of the military.”  
  
 _And stay out of my way_  is implied, but Padmé can accept that.  Anakin has no stake or interest in the myriad human rights violations in his Empire.  
  
“And if my authority is questioned?” she asks.  
  
“No one will question your authority,” he replies dryly.  
  
“But if it is-“  
  
“ _No one will question your authority_.”  
  
Padmé looks at him for a moment and then inclines her head.  “Thank you,” she says.  
  
His hand flexes and for a moment, Padmé thinks he’s going to reach out to her.  But he doesn’t.  He turns back to the water.  
  
***  
  
“Can you find the logs for,” Padmé pauses, scrolling through the datapad to locate the cruiser’s name, “the  _Fleetfoot_?”  
  
Bail leans over and sorts through the stack of papers, stopping as his comlink chirps.  Mehht does the same with her own stack of paperwork.  It’s largely futile, but Padmé wants to see if she can locate at least a portion of the shipments that should have been bound for the refugee crisis in Abhean.  The staff of the Office of Displaced Persons was released from Imperial service the previous morning.  The Administrator, a Twi'lek named Korsa Dae, was most displeased with the news.  
  
Padmé, Mehht, Bail and two of Bail’s Senatorial aides are attempting to get things back on track.  Padmé turns to the guard who stands at attention by the conference room door.  “You can sit down,” she says again.  
  
He doesn’t respond.  The guard, Lorian Massinau, was sent over by the Emperor yesterday.  As far as Padmé can tell, Lorian must be taking orders directly from Anakin because he most certainly isn’t listening to her.  Padmé has no doubts that Lorian is another of Anakin’s trained assassins.  She would much rather have Typho at her side, but she already knows that Anakin believes her loyal security officer is getting too old to do his job effectively.  Given Anakin’s oddly generous nature as of late, she’s disinclined to argue the point.  
  
"I'm not sure the  _Fleetfoot_  ever existed," Mehht says, lips twisting in a wry expression.  For lack of anything else to do, Mehht is spending her time helping the ODP.  Just as Padmé thought, though Mehht has never worked in an environment like this, she is picking it up very quickly.   
  
“That was Ajun,” Bail says, indicating his comlink.  “He spoke with the head of Besati Shipping.  They’re still our best bet for relocating supplies and people quickly.  I’ve arranged a meeting at a tapcaf in Eastport.  I must go.”  
  
“Of course,” Padmé says, watching as Bail grabs his cloak and heads for the door with one of his aides.    
  
“Don’t worry,” Mehht says dryly, “we’re not going anywhere.”  
  
Bail gives them a final nod and walks through the conference room door.  A moment later they hear the office’s outer door slide shut.  Padmé glances at her chrono.  
  
“What time is Luke supposed to arrive?” Mehht asks.  
  
“In a few hours,” Padmé replies, “if he’s on time.”  
  
The door to the outer office slides open and Padmé looks up expecting to see Bail.  Lorian has already moved, positioning himself between Padmé and the door.  Over his shoulder, Padmé sees Korsa Dae followed closely by Orn Free Taa.  
  
Padmé immediately rises to her feet.  Subtly, but unmistakably, Lorian palms his vibroblade.    
  
Taa’s hand is situated in the small of Korsa Dae’s back and pushes her into the room.  Taa smiles at Padmé, proudly exhibiting his mouth full of teeth filed to sharp points.  Padmé’s features are bland, but she’s disgusted.  She forgot just how repulsive Orn Free Taa is.  
  
“Senator Amidala,” Taa says, then makes a show of correcting himself.  “Oh, forgive me.  I meant  _Empress Skywalker_.”  His condescending smile confirms all of Padmé’s concerns.  Senator Taa quite obviously does not take her seriously.  
  
“Senator,” she replies evenly.  
  
“You’ve already met my companion,” he says, his voice poison sweet.  “When Korsa came to me in such a state of agitation yesterday, I knew there must be a grave misunderstanding.”  
  
“There was no misunderstanding,” Padmé replies, cutting short whatever longwinded diatribe Taa had planned.  “Administrator Dae was removed from her position for gross incompetence.  She should be grateful she isn’t being charged with embezzlement.”  
  
Orn Free Taa feigns shock, laying one corpulent three-fingered hand on his chest.  “You can’t be serious,” he says.    
  
“I am quite serious, Senator Taa,” Padmé replies firmly.  “If that is the only reason you are here, then we’re finished and I suggest you leave.”  
  
Taa’s features harden into a sneer.  “We shall see about that Senator Amidala,” he says.  “The Emperor won’t stand for your meddling in Imperial affairs.  This is my domain.”  
  
“Ask him yourself,” Padmé says boldly.  She hopes she’s not bluffing.  Anakin promised her his support, but he has promised her many things.  
  
Taa laughs.  “I will,” he assures her.  He looks her up and down.  “You always were one of those bleeding hearts,” he sneers.  “Luckily none of your political leanings rubbed off on the Emperor.  And don’t try and claim to be the Empress to me.  You may have returned to Coruscant, but everyone knows you’re staying at your old Senatorial apartments and not the Imperial Palace.”  
  
Padmé’s features tighten.  It’s the truth and it probably is common knowledge.  She’s been avoiding HoloNet for exactly that reason.  But she doesn’t appreciate Taa publicly speculating on her relationship with her husband.  
  
“Ask him,” she repeats in a biting tone.  
  
Taa leaves Korsa Dae standing there glaring daggers at them while he retreats into the outer office.  
  
Lorian never moves a muscle.  Mehht openly stares at Padmé.  At least Bail’s other aide, Maxim, extends her the courtesy of pretending to be absorbed in his work.  
  
Finally, Orn Free Taa returns and one glance at him is more than sufficient.  His features are a mixture of outrage and fear.  He grabs Korsa none too gently by the wrist and pulls her to his side.  “ _Forgive me_ ,” he says, nearly choking on the words, “Empress Skywalker.  It appears I was mistaken.”  
  
From the level of contrition in Taa’s tone, Padmé suspects that Anakin likely made it know just how much he despised being dragged into affairs of this sort.  Padmé doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.  Orn Free Taa is a powerful man and she would prefer not to have him as an enemy.  
  
“Good day, Senator,” Padmé says.  
  
He inclines his head deferentially, but pure hatred shines in his eyes.  
  


	5. Chapter 5

Padmé stands on the veranda of the apartment she once claimed as Senator of the Chommell Sector.  By rights, the penthouse should now be assigned to Padmé’s niece, Pooja Naberrie, the current publicly elected Senator.  However, the Naboo Embassy has been assigned new space in 500 Republica and this apartment has been expanded and is now reserved strictly for the Empress’s use.  Padmé appreciates Anakin’s kindness as much as she is bothered by her acceptance.   
    
Pooja is a beautiful young woman.  Padmé has glimpsed her on HoloNet several times over the years.  Pooja’s older sister, Ryoo, is now married and living with her husband and young son on Naboo.  Padmé hasn’t seen either of her nieces since they were young children.  It is one of the many regrets she carries in her heart.  She hopes that one day soon she will find the strength to face her family, to offer them some explanation and beg their forgiveness.  But she is not yet ready.   
    
The twins know their cousins, Leia moreso than Luke.  Leia spends a lot of time following the proceedings of the Imperial Senate.  In this, if nothing else, Leia is definitely her mother’s daughter.  Leia understands political maneuvering and the subtle art of persuasion.  Padmé always thought she would be proud to have her daughter follow in her footsteps.  It is not pride she feels.    
    
Luke, on the other hand, seems as disinterested in politics as his father.  Padmé watches her son as he gracefully moves through his lightsaber forms in the early morning light.  She clearly remembers Anakin doing the same thing during those golden days they spent on Naboo.   
    
Luke finishes his forms and turns to her, crossing the distance and embracing her in a hug.   
    
“I’m sorry I missed you last night,” Padmé says.  “We were at the ODP offices until very late.”   
    
Luke’s expression is concerned.  “You should get some more sleep,” he says.   
    
Padmé shrugs off his worry.  “I’ve spent quite enough time convalescing,” she says dryly.  “I’ll survive a few late nights.”   
    
Luke escorts his mother to a small table on the veranda where a light breakfast has been arranged.  He waits until she is seated and then takes a chair.    
    
“How was your trip?” Padmé asks, pouring steaming caf into a delicate cup.   
    
Luke studies her for a moment, taking the time to pour his own cup of caf before he replies.  “Important,” he finally answers.   
    
Padmé nods, watching her son carefully.  As a child he was so open and gregarious, but with age, he has become more and more secretive.  Padmé has never pushed because her trust in her son is unshakeable.  However, she still worries.   
    
“Where did you go?” she asks, knowing she is pressing him far harder than she would usually dare.   
    
He’s quiet a moment.  “Ask me again sometime,” he says evasively.   
    
Padmé silently wonders what answer Luke offered his father, but she allows him his secret.  Gracefully, she changes the subject to her eventful return to Coruscant.  They chat easily, both of them picking at their breakfasts.  Padmé’s vision falls on the lightsaber clipped to Luke’s belt and she can’t help herself from prying.   
    
“Does your father instruct you and Leia in the ways of the Force?” she asks.   
    
Luke’s eyes go wide for a moment.  Her question is unprecedented.  There were several years in the twins’ early childhood when she categorically refused to refer to her husband in any capacity.  She has always avoided asking the twins about their dealings with Anakin.   
    
Luke wipes his mouth with his napkin.  “When we were younger, yes,” he answers.   
    
“And now?” Padmé prompts.   
    
“And now … we don’t talk about it,” Luke admits.  Padmé’s expression is full of curiosity and Luke shrugs.  “I think it was easier for him when we were younger,” he explains.  “It was more about deflecting blaster bolts with a lightsaber or levitating objects.  He spent a little time working on perception, influence, but …”   
    
Padmé’s expression encourages him to continue.   
    
“The older we got, the harder it became for him.  _I think_ ,” Luke adds wryly.  Padmé understand the reaction well.  She doubts Anakin has ever discussed his thoughts or feelings on this subject with either of the twins.  It’s entirely Luke’s intuition, which Padmé trusts.   
    
“Leia and I reached a point in our training where we really needed to discuss the intention behind our actions.  Light.  Dark.  Balance.”  Luke sighs. “He shut down.  Shut us out.”   
    
Padmé bites her lower lip and leans back in her chair as she crosses her arms over her chest.  “I saw him training a few days ago,” she says.   
    
Luke’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Father?”   
    
Padmé nods.  “He was sparring with one of his assassins.  He was using these animals called ysalamiri.”   
    
Luke shrugs.  “He does that,” he says.  “Jedi and Sith are so attuned to the Force that its absence can be almost debilitating.  If someone with any sense were to attempt a coup or an attack against him, using ysalamiri would be their best bet.  It would level the playing field.”   
    
“So he’s trying to be proactive?” Padmé asks.  “By training himself to be able to react without the Force as a guide?”   
    
“Partially,” Luke says.  “I also think he does it just to see if he  _can_  do it.”   
    
Padmé sinks farther back in her chair, considering this.  “Don’t you think that for someone who has dedicated his life to the Force, that it’s a bit …”  She tries to think of words other than  _perverse, deviant or abhorrent_  to describe Anakin’s behavior to his son.  “ _Odd_?”   
    
Luke smiles and Padmé knows he knew exactly what she had been intending to say.  ‘I’ve never noticed that Father is particularly bound by anyone else’s idea of what he should or shouldn’t be doing.”   
    
Padmé bites back her cynical laugh.  Anakin destroyed a thousand generations of Jedi tradition.  No, he most certainly is not bound by anyone else’s standards.     
    
Padmé suspects that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Anakin was never disciplined.  Not as a Padawan, not as a Jedi Knight, most certainly not as a member of the Jedi Council.  He was always smart enough, charming enough and possessed of enough raw talent, ability and power that he didn’t need discipline.  That the same defiant, rebellious attitude is still firmly entrenched, regardless of the fact that he is a Sith Lord.    
    
Padmé’s knowledge of Sith tradition is spotty at best.  But she does know enough to know that Sith Lords probably don’t love their children – if they even have children.  If there is anything pure left in him, it’s his care for his children.  Padmé is staking all their fates on that bet.   
    
***   
    
Padmé glances at her chrono and sighs. It’s already past five and she told Anakin that she would make an appearance at a formal dinner for the Hapan envoy tonight.  There’s no way she’s going to be finished sorting through the latest round of asylum requests and ration dispersals.  She rubs the back of her neck with her hand.    
    
Anakin mentioned the dinner in passing two days ago when she contacted him to intervene in an incident with Grand Moff Tarkin.  Tarkin seemed to think that three Capital class ships were serving the Empire better in cold storage than by being used to deliver medical supplies.  Anakin sided with her, though she suspects it was due more to his loathing for Tarkin and the aristocratic snobbery he represents than any loyalty Anakin feels for her.  That's fine with Padmé.  She has no compunctions about using Anakin's inability to play nice with others to further her own causes.    
    
Regardless, Padmé doesn’t think tonight's dinner is overly important.  Maybe she’ll send her apologies.   
    
“We need to go,” Mehht says again, arms crossed over her chest.   
    
Padmé looks up, clearly exasperated.  “There’s still so much to do,” she says.   
    
“Aren't you going?” Mehht demands.  Mehht doesn’t want to go. She’s made that painfully clear.  But she also doesn’t like changing her plans at the last minute.  It disrupts her sense of order.   
    
“I don’t want to,” Padmé admits.    
    
She knows this is precisely the type of event for which Anakin wants an Empress.  He’s horrible with politics, negotiations and small talk.  Not to mention she knows it has been a constant affront to his pride that his wife has been absent so long.  She looks at the stack of paperwork.  It’s certainly not going anywhere.   
    
“I want to see her,” Mehht says speculatively.  “I wonder what a Queen looks like.”  Her gaze flickers over Padmé and she catches herself.  “Oh,  _other than you_ , I mean,” she amends.   
    
Padmé frowns.  She knows that especially at this moment, she is no one’s idea of a queen – or Empress.  She looked presentable enough when she left her apartment in the morning, but after so many hours of digging through mountains of paper and swilling old caf, she’s well aware her moisture farmer roots are showing.  But that still doesn’t explain what Mehht means.  “Queen?  What queen?” Padmé asks.   
    
“Oh, the …” Mehht says, searching for the correctly words.  She makes a circular gesture with her hand, prompting Lorian.   
    
Over the last few days, Lorian has warmed up a degree or two.  He’s still frozen to his icy, assassin core, but he will now occasionally respond to direct questions.  He gives Mehht a very put-upon expression.  “The Hapan Queen Mother,” Lorian answers.  “Ta’a Chume.”   
    
Padmé’s brow furrows.  “The dinner is supposed to be for the Hapan envoy,” she says.  “Not the Queen Mother.”  The Hapes Consortium has existed in isolation from the rest of the galaxy for thousands of years. If this is indeed a dinner for the Queen Mother, it’s of vital importance.  It's an opportunity to re-establish relations with a potentially powerful ally.   
    
“You really need to start watching HoloNet,” Mehht says dryly.   
    
Padmé rises to her feet and starts towards the door.  Lorian immediately flanks her as Mehht hurries to catch up.  There is no way Padmé is missing this dinner.  She just hopes there is time to make herself presentable.    
    
“How long have you known about this?” Padmé asks Mehht as they climb into the transport to return to her apartment.   
    
“It was announced this morning,” Mehht says, her tone now more conciliatory.  She obviously didn’t realize that Padmé didn’t know.  “The Vice Chair of the Senate arranged it.  He seemed quite proud of himself.  Massam Deeda or something.”   
    
“Mas Amedda,” Padmé automatically corrects, her features tightening instantly.   
    
“I take it you know him,” Mehht says carefully.   
    
“He’s close friends with Orn Free Taa,” Padmé explains.    
    
The rest of the short trip is in silence.  Once the transport lands, Padmé quickly hurries to the private turbolift and her apartment.  She heads directly to the refresher where she quickly showers and washes her hair.  She’s still dripping wet, wrapped in a robe with her hair twisted into a towel on top of her head when Mehht walks into her bedroom.   
    
“I talked to Kore,” Mehht says quietly.   
    
Padmé knows from Mehht’s tone that it’s not good news.  Kore’s mother, Dormé, married Giddean Danu, an influential Senator from the Kuat Sector and political ally of Bail Organa and Mon Mothma.  Any information from Kore is on good authority.   
    
“And?” Padmé asks.   
    
“Dormé seems to think that this is Mas Amedda’s attempt to get rid of you.”   
    
Padmé snorts.  She already had that figured out.  “What I want to know is if the Hapan Queen Mother is complicit,” Padmé says.  “I’m sure Mas Amedda and Orn Free Taa think it would be incredibly convenient if the Emperor threw me in jail and married Ta’a Chume.”   
    
Mehht gives her a wry look.  “Yes,” she says bluntly.  “And if half the things HoloNet says about that woman are true, it was probably her idea.”   
    
Padmé isn't sure about that.  It's impossible to know Ta'a Chume's motives at this point – if ever.  Padmé rather doubts that the Hapan Queen Mother has designs on Anakin, but she knows enough to avoid ruling out any scenario.  The Hapans have been isolationists for thousands of years and as such, the Imperial intel on them is dubious at best.  The only thing Padmé knows for certain is that the Hapans are a merciless, opportunistic society obsessed with court intrigue and power.  Ta'a Chume has been the Queen Mother for at least a decade which is more than sufficient testament to her own ruthlessness.  Padmé has no idea what the Queen Mother might have to gain by forging formal ties with the Empire.  Snaring Anakin would most certainly add to Ta'a Chume's power base, but such a union would likely prove more trouble than it's worth -  for both parties.   Anakin has never been one to feel threatened by powerful women, however, the Hapans are a matriarchal society.  Anakin may be attracted to strong females, but Padmé seriously doubts he has any intentions of taking orders from one.   
    
Anakin's intentions aside, Padmé knows that Ta'a Chume is very adept at finding ways to get what she wants.  Anakin's abhorrence for politics and subtle manipulation leaves him paradoxically vulnerable to such attacks.  And Padmé cannot discount the rumors of Ta'a Chume's attractiveness.  The Hapans have been bred for beauty for thousands of years.  Padmé has never seen Ta'a Chume, but she's willing to wager the Queen Mother is nothing short of stunning.    
    
Padmé bites her lower lip and stares at the wooden trunk at the end of her bed.  She takes a deep breath and steels her resolve.  She walks to the trunk and opens the lid.  Mehht watches as she carefully removes item after item until she finds it.    
    
"Is that what you had us all digging around closets for the other day?" Mehht asks.   
    
Padmé nods.  Reverently, she unfolds the material and lays the dress out on the bed.   
    
Mehht looks at the dress and then arches a judgmental eyebrow at Padmé.  “You’re not leaving the apartment in that, are you?”   
    
Padmé blushes, but holds her head high.  “It still fits,” she says defensively.   
    
Mehht doesn’t look convinced.   
    
“I need help with my hair,” Padmé says, walking toward her vanity.   
    
***   
    
The heat of the moment has passed along with almost all of Padmé’s bravado and she is trying not to feel ridiculous in the gown she has chosen to wear for the evening.  The Felpajh 10A shuttle's windows are dimmed, but the lights of passing air traffic are still visible as they make their way to the Imperial Palace.  Despite the state of the art climate controls on the luxury shuttle and her own heavy black velvet hooded cloak, Padmé is still cold.  She pulls the cloak more tightly around her body.   
    
The last time Padmé wore this gown, she was a girl.  Perhaps not in age, but definitely in her heart.  She was careless and perhaps a bit cruel the one and only time she ever wore the gown.  The cruelty was not intentional.  She was ignorant and naive.  She only knew that she felt womanly and empowered wearing the gorgeous gown, but she had been supremely unclear on her own intentions.  She hadn’t known what she wanted, other than to attract the attention of her handsome young Jedi protector.  She most certainly succeeded.    
    
She is hoping it will work again.   
    
This time Padmé’s intentions are painfully clear.  She has ignored the persistent rumors of Anakin’s consorts over the years.  His fidelity isn’t the issue tonight.  He can entertain himself with as many dance hall Twi’leks as he wants.  What is  _not_  permissible to Padmé is a threat to her throne and her children.  Ta’a Chume would make a potent political ally and a stunning Empress.  Padmé cannot allow that to happen.  She knows exactly what this dress means and what it promises.    
    
Anakin still wants her.  Padmé has known that since their standoff shortly after her return to Coruscant.  She isn't naïve enough to think that he loves her – that emotion is reserved for Luke and Leia.  But he still finds her physically attractive.  He wants to possess her.  She supposes she should take some measure of comfort in the fact that he would never use force.  The same pride that will never allow him to beg also prevents him from using coercion, Force manipulation or physical strength to cow her into submission.  He wants her - but he wants her to want him.  He wants her to willingly walk into the demon's embrace.    
    
Mas Amedda has forced her hand.   
    
She may take that leap. 


	6. Chapter 6

The private shuttle does not take Padmé to the formal palace entrance.  Instead, she is secreted to one of the myriad lesser entrances.  Padmé follows Lorian inside the palace, trailed closely by Mehht.     
  
"This way," a human female in her mid twenties says, ushering them toward a modified skycar.  No doubt the palace's monstrous size makes such conveyances a necessity.  Dutifully they climb inside and are quickly whisked along a corridor wide enough to accommodate a half dozen bantha standing shoulder to shoulder.  
  
Padmé assumes that Korto must be dealing with the impending Imperial dinner.  She's glad for the reprieve.  She isn't in the mood to look at that repulsive creature.  It's several long moments before Padmé realizes that they aren’t heading toward the teeming center of the palace.  They seem to be venturing into progressively more remote sections.  She glances at Lorian, but he doesn't seem to be bothered.  Padmé takes a measure of comfort in that and sinks back in her seat.  
  
The skycar eventually slows and then comes to a stop at the end of a rather non-descript corridor far from any formal reception hall.  
  
"I'm not sure –" Padmé starts, but the young driver is already out of the skycar and hurrying around to open Padmé's door.  
  
"This way, milady," she says, bowing deeply.  
  
Padmé steps from the skycar and follows the young woman to a coded door.  The woman steps to the side and waits.  It occurs to Padmé that she's waiting on Padmé to palm the security reader.  
  
Why exactly some random door in the depths of the Imperial Palace should be coded to accept her palmprint, Padmé doesn't know, but she tries it.  There's a barely audible hiss as the door pockets itself.  
  
Padmé walks through the door to find herself in a small workshop.  There are no windows.  The walls are bare.  There are two tables set against the far wall with various electronics and droid parts in differing stages of disassembly.  There's another coded door on the right.  It's all very neat and tidy and rather depressing with a smell somewhere between sweat and servo lubricant.  
  
Padmé looks at Mehht and sees a confused expression that mirrors her own.  Lorian stands sentry in the corridor.  Before Padmé can question the driver, the woman rushes off in the modified skycar.  Now they're stranded in a big supply closet in the bowels of the castle.    
  
Great.  
  
Again, Padmé glances at Lorian who for the first time in a week, doesn't seem particularly intent on protecting her life.  Padmé realizes that this could very well be an ambush.  Orn Free Taa or Mas Amedda or the Hapan Queen Mother – or better yet, all of them – arranged to have her kidnapped or killed.  Lorian is obviously on their payroll.  It disappoints Padmé that it was this easy for them to get rid of her.  
  
Padmé stalks over to one of the tables and grabs a bladed tool.  She hands it to Mehht in silence.  She'll be damned if she's going without a fight.  She picks up a hydrospanner.  Just about anything can be lethal if you hit someone hard enough with it.  She glances at the closed door on the right and then back toward Lorian and the corridor.  
  
"Keep an eye on him," she says to Mehht.  
  
Padmé heads to the coded door and again, it accepts her palmprint and opens.  The room is smaller and dimmer.  Like the workshop, there are no windows.  In the gloom, Padmé can discern a sleeping couch against one of the walls.  The rest of the room is empty, but as Padmé stands there in confusion, another door on the far end of the room slides open to reveal Anakin, still damp from his shower, a white towel slung low across his hips.  There are no ysalamiri here and he obviously sensed her presence, but he seems as perplexed as she as to why she’s standing in the middle of what must be his bedroom.  
  
Padmé opens her mouth to speak and realizes she has no idea what to say.  She opens her mouth again.  Finally she says, “One of your staff picked me up at the north entrance and brought me here.”  
  
Anakin steps farther into the room and the light from the refresher provides a good deal of illumination.  “Are you alone?” he demands, clearly irritated at the idea.  
  
“No,” she replies quickly.  She glances over her shoulder toward the door only to discover that it slid shut behind her.  “Mehht’s in the workshop,” she says.  “And Lorian is out in the corridor.”  Padmé now realizes that Lorian didn’t betray her.  He knew – even though she didn’t – that they were in Anakin's private quarters.    
  
Anakin seems placated by her explanation and his posture relaxes.  Padmé tries not to stare.  It’s difficult.  The room is so ascetic there really isn’t anything else to hold her attention.   There are four dull gray walls.  And the sleeping couch.  She immediately looks back to Anakin.  He’s trying not to laugh, clearly amused by her unease.    
  
“I need to dress,” he says.  “You’re welcome to stay and watch.  Again.”  
  
She hears his chuckle and she turns on her heel and heads back to the workshop.  
  
***  
  
Anakin isn’t chuckling as another modified skycar driven by another anonymous Imperial lackey conveys them to the palace’s Grand Ballroom.  Anakin is dressed, as always, in his traditional black Jedi attire, though these garments are more expensively tailored than his daily wear.  Padmé is seated next to him and the back of her hand occasionally brushes against the ebony nanosilk covering his thigh.  There is no denying the luxurious feel of the fabric.  She tries to ignore the feel of his thigh pressed against hers.  
  
Anakin doesn’t seem to notice as they’re regularly jostled against one another.  His earlier teasingly wolfish demeanor is gone.  He stares straight ahead. Glares might be more appropriate.  He’s clearly not looking forward to the evening with much enthusiasm and Padmé takes comfort in that.  
  
The driver stops near a small alcove.  Anakin absently helps Padmé from the skycar and in a rare show of chivalry, waits until Lorian does the same for Mehht.  Lorian leads the way through the alcove and into a private anteroom that will lead directly to the Grand Ballroom.  Leia is waiting in the anteroom.  She ignores Padmé entirely and glares daggers at her father.  “You’re late,” she says.  
  
“I was busy,” he snaps.  "In the future I'll make certain Mas Amedda knows my social calendar won't be scheduled at his convenience."  
  
Leia is angry, but holds her tongue.  For the first time, Padmé appreciates that in her absence, it has fallen upon Leia to act in her stead.  Guilt seizes her heart.  Leia is sixteen years old.  It shouldn’t be her duty to manage her father’s Empire.  It’s not healthy.  Leia is far older than her age would indicate – and Padmé doesn’t believe that to be a good thing.  
  
Leia’s gown is black shimmersilk.  The scooped neck reveals far more of Leia’s décolletage than Padmé finds prudent.  If the look on Anakin’s face is any indication, he agrees with his wife.  The gown’s low cut is accentuated by Leia’s jewelry.  She wears a necklace of chunky silver squares that had been a gift to Padmé from Breha Organa many years ago.  Leia’s long chestnut hair has been braided and then the braids coiled in a double strand on top of her head.  Other than the neckline, the rest of Leia’s gown is modest enough.  The hem is long, barely skirting the floor.  The sleeves are long as well, though they are made of sheerer semi-transparent fabric.  The gown displays Leia’s youthful figure to its best advantage.  
  
“Lady Soh?” Padmé asks, gesturing toward Leia’s gown.  
  
Leia finally deigns to acknowledge her mother.  “Of course,” she says.  “You know how haughty the Hapans are.  I want to impress them.”  
  
“It’s a beautiful gown,” Padmé admits.  “It’s very becoming.”  
  
Leia allows herself a small smile that shaves years off her appearance.  “Thanks,” she says softly.  She looks pointedly at Padmé’s heavy velvet cloak.  “You can leave that in here,” she says.  
  
Padmé nods and reaches for the clasp before her resolve fades.  She shrugs out of the cloak and blindly hands it to a nearby steward.  Her cheeks flame, but she forces herself to meet her daughter’s gaze.  
  
Leia’s eyes go wide as she takes in her mother’s gown.  The bodice is a black synthleather corset that leaves Padmé’s shoulders and a large part of her chest bare.  The mermaid style skirt is woven with a metallic thread that twinkles in the light.  The fingerless black synthleather gloves run the entire length of both arms.  Padmé’s hair is pulled back from her face, but her long curls cascade down her back in the same chestnut tone as Leia’s hair.  
  
“I guess I’m not the only one worried about making an impression,” Leia says with a wry smile.  
  
Padmé smiles at her daughter and there is a moment of synchronicity.  They have their differences and their differences are many, but neither of them wants Ta’a Chume anywhere near Anakin.  
  
“You look stunning,” Leia says seriously.  
  
Padmé’s smile widens.  
  
Luke enters the anteroom wearing a simple black tunic and trousers.  His gaze falls on Padmé and he stops short.    
  
The moment Leia and Padmé began discussing fashion, Anakin tuned them out entirely.  But noticing his son’s sudden stop, Anakin follows Luke’s gaze.  His eyes travel over Padmé’s body and she can see when he realizes why this moment is familiar.  His features harden, his muscles tense like a tusk cat scenting prey.    
  
“You look … lovely,” he says intently.  
  
“Thank you,” Padmé says, attempting to keep her tone light.  She looks from Luke to Leia and back.  Both of her children are clearly bewildered by their parents’ behavior.  “We should go,” Padmé says.  “Our guests are waiting.  
  
***  
  
The dinner is stiflingly formal.  Padmé is seated at a large round table, Anakin on her left.  Leia sits at  Anakin’s left, next to the Queen Mother’s eldest son, the Chume’da, Kalen.   Ta’a Chume is seated between Kalen and her younger son, Isolder.  Next to Isolder, Luke completes the circle.   
  
The setting is uncomfortably intimate for Padmé’s taste, but it is demanded by Hapan protocol.  Only royalty can be seated at Ta’a Chume’s table.  Padmé wonders if Anakin is enjoying the irony.  She fully expects him to mention Watto at any moment, just to ruffle the Queen Mother’s feathers.  
  
But then again, perhaps not.  Despite his professed dislike for politics, Lord Vader is far more adept at it than the Jedi Knight, Anakin Skywalker, ever was.  The Hapans are, as Padmé expected, almost repulsively beautiful.  Perhaps over the years Padmé has come to appreciate the grace of imperfection, the truth of flaws.  Ta’a Chume, Kalen and Isolder are aesthetic perfection and Padmé finds it supremely unattractive.  
  
Padmé has no insight into Anakin’s thoughts.  He is carefully masking his reaction to the Hapan royals.  He’s surprisingly cultured, carefully navigating the potential mine field of Ta’a Chume’s small talk.  It’s quite possible he does find the Queen Mother attractive.  She is undeniably beautiful with luxurious reddish gold hair and deep green eyes.  However, this dinner has brought Ta’a Chume’s failings into sharp focus.  She is the Queen Mother of a matriarchal, hereditary lineage – and she has no daughter.  Padmé takes careful notice of Ta’a Chume’s regular, critical glances at Leia.  
  
“We were most pleased when your Senate’s Vice Chair extended the invitation of a formal visit,” Ta’a Chume says.  
  
“Indeed,” Anakin replies blandly.    
  
"We hope our visit wasn't interrupting more pressing business," Ta'a Chume says.  Her tone is light and the words are careful, but there's something in her eyes.  Ta'a Chume is angry.  They were kept waiting tonight and she is most displeased.  
  
"Actually it was," Anakin says bluntly.    
  
Padmé fights the urge to sigh.  She knew his good behavior could only last so long.  
  
"I was finalizing negotiations," he continues.  "It was most inconvenient to be called back to Coruscant."  
  
Padmé's concern that Anakin is attracted to the Hapan Queen Mother wanes considerably with each passing moment – though her worry that he may start a war with the Hapes Consortium is growing.  She also wonders what exactly it was he was negotiating.  The only negotiations she ever knew Anakin to engage in involved a lightsaber.  
  
"Perhaps our future visits won't be so abrupt."  These words are spoken by Kalen.  His eyes are fixated on Leia.  It’s obvious that he wishes to head off a confrontation between Ta’a Chume and Anakin if only because it would complicate potential future encounters between him and Leia.  
  
Leia doesn’t return the sentiment and seems to be doing her best to ignore the Chume'da.  Padmé is secretly glad her daughter isn't yet so mercenary that she will feign interest in the young man.  Being the Chume'la – the future Queen Mother - of the Hapan Consortium would most certainly be a position of power.  Of course, then Leia would have Ta'a Chume for a mother-in-law.  Apparently, Leia isn't willing to pay that price.    
  
Then again, Leia probably doesn't think she needs to pay that price.  She's already heir apparent to the Galactic Empire.  Padmé's head aches.  If she can get through this dinner without her husband or daughter starting a galactic war, it will be a success.  
  
"Your necklace is gorgeous," Padmé says to Ta'a Chume.  
  
Ta'a Chume is obviously taken off guard by the complement, but pleased.  With insincere modesty, she touches her impeccably manicured fingertips to the sparkling gems precisely the same shade of green as her eyes.  "We are humbled you noticed," she says with a poison-sweet smile.  
  
Ta'a Chume's use of the royal we grates on Padmé's nerves, but she smiles placidly nonetheless.  The Queen Mother looks pointedly at Padmé's left wrist.  
  
"Does your Emperor not give you jewels?" Ta’a Chume asks with a smirking grin.    
  
Padmé knows the words were spoken only to goad Anakin.  "On the contrary," Padmé replies, touching the Japor snippet protectively.  "My husband has given me many lovely jewels."  She tactfully omits the part where she attempted to sell them and he murdered the unfortunate pawn broker who bought them.  "This particular piece has sentimental value."  
  
Ta'a Chume arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow.  Padmé can feel Anakin's gaze on her, but she refuses to look at him.    
  
"We would be most honored if you shared the story with us," Ta'a Chume says predatorily.  Her gaze narrows.  "The chain appears to be made of hair."  She smiles viciously.  "A lost love, perhaps?"  
  
Padmé finds it difficult to breathe for a moment and she forces her face into a blank mask.  Ta'a Chume is right in so many ways, but her venomous bite has missed its target by a wide margin.  The wound which Ta'a Chume probes wasn't caused by the type of betrayal for which she is hoping.  Padmé knows the Queen Mother wants to publicly embarrass Anakin by bringing his long-absent wife’s fictitious, illicit affair to light.  She will be sorely disappointed.  
  
Padmé ignores the last question.  "The Japor wood rune was a gift from my husband the first time we met," she explains, her voice perfectly measured.  She forces her lips into a smile.  "The lock of hair is his Padawan braid.  Jedi learners cut it when they become Knights.  Jedi are forbidden possessions.  The lock of hair is the only thing Anakin ever truly owned as a Jedi."  
  
Ta'a Chume almost frowns – but not quite.  Frowning, no doubt, would cause wrinkles and that is even more unacceptable than losing her verbal skirmish.  Somewhat de-fanged, the Queen Mother ceases her attack, letting Padmé and Kalen carry the bulk of the conversation.  The rest of the dinner passes uneventfully.    
  
Padmé has to stop herself from releasing a sigh of relief as the last of the dishes are removed and the guests begin milling around the expansive room.  She excuses herself from the table and walks toward the open archway that leads out onto a terrace with a spectacular view of Galactic City.  Lorian follows her at a discrete distance.  She walks to the railing and stares out at the city.  The night air is uncomfortably cool, but she finally feels like she can breathe.  
  
Luke leans his hip against the railing near her, arms crossed over his chest.  She looks at him and does not try to mask any of the exhaustion she feels.  Nothing tonight has gone as anticipated.  
  
"Pretty surreal, huh?" he says.  
  
Padmé laughs humorlessly.  "Which part?"  
  
"All of it.”  His mood sobers.  "All of us," he says quietly.  "Together."  
  
Padmé takes a moment to appreciate that this is the first time that she, Anakin and the twins have been in the same place at the same time in Luke and Leia's memory.  "It could have been worse, I suppose," she admits.  
  
Luke is quiet for a moment.  "I'd never heard that story," he finally says.  She looks at him and he indicates the Japor snippet at her wrist.  "Was it true?"  
  
Padmé nods.  
  
"How old were you two when you met?" Luke asks softly.  
  
"I was fourteen," she says.  "He was nine – he'll say he was ten.  He wasn't."  
  
Luke brow furrows.  "I didn't realize he was that young.  I always thought he was already a Jedi when you met."  
  
Padmé shakes her head.  "He thought I was an angel,” she says wistfully.  “According to him, the moment he saw me, he knew he'd marry me."  She takes a deep breath and releases it.  "At the time, I was a Queen and he was a slave."  She looks at Luke.  "Your father's force of will is quite impressive."  
  
Luke nods in agreement.  They stand in silence for several long moments.  Finally, Luke offers her his arm and she takes it with a smile, allowing him to escort her inside.  The melancholy sensation in her chest grows.    
  
Luke and Leia are shocked to find that their parents once cared for each other.  Padmé clearly remembers just how desperately she loved Anakin – and how his Fall broke her heart and her spirit.  It bothers her that anyone, not least of all, her own children, could think her marriage to Anakin is one of convenience – it’s anything but.  
  
***  
  
As the evening wears on, Padmé begins to regret her decision to attend, wishing instead that she had stayed at the ODP offices.  Maybe then her head and heart wouldn’t ache this way.  This night has been interminable.  After her short respite on the terrace, Padmé was quickly thrust back into the role of dutiful hostess.  She’s spent the last hour doing her best to keep Anakin and Ta’a Chume on civil terms.  She thinks it would be easier to keep two rabid vornskyrs from fighting.  She has finally given up, leaving them to their own devices while she searches out Mehht.  
  
Padmé no longer cares to tread lightly with the Hapans and she no longer fears that Ta’a Chume might gain influence over Anakin.  Whatever Mas Amedda’s plan may have been, it has failed spectacularly.  The Queen Mother’s interest seems to have been limited strictly to Leia – and Leia seems so steadfastly indifferent to the Chume’da that there’s no use worrying about that front.  
  
Padmé scans the room for Mehht, but cannot locate her through the throng of resplendently attired Imperial sycophants.  She turns and finds Lorian standing several paces away.  “Where’s Mehht?” she snaps.  
  
Lorian looks supremely irritated to be asked the question, but he ironically nods in Mehht’s direction without looking.  Padmé rolls her eyes.  Men.  
  
Padmé forges through the crowd ignoring the speculative glances and whispers.  She doesn’t know why she thought she could return to Coruscant and play Empress.  She has no patience for this.  
  
Mehht is standing near one of the Grand Ballroom’s servant entrances, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Korto.  The two are obviously having a standoff.  Were Padmé in a better mood, she would likely be amused.  Korto is several orders of magnitude larger than Mehht, yet she is clearly undaunted.    
  
As Padmé nears, she can hear Korto’s raspy voice and see the sheen of sweat on his crimson skin as he gestures at Mehht in agitation.  Mehht holds her ground.  Were Mehht not dressed in the pale green empire waist shimmersilk gown, Padmé might have thought they were back in Anchorhead haggling with Jawas over the latest round of sub-par droids.  
  
“What’s going on?” Padmé demands.  
  
Korto’s head whips in her direction and he glares at her, so agitated he forgets to grovel appropriately.  “It’s none of your concern,” he snaps.  
  
This is just the outlet Padmé has been needing.  She would love nothing more than to channel all of her irritation and heartache at this vile creature.  “Excuse me?” Padmé replies, her voice icy.  
  
Korto seems to realize what he’s just done and he opens his mouth to offer what would likely be an apology, but he is clapped soundly on the back by Orn Free Taa.  
  
“Your maid has stolen something from us,” Taa says darkly.  
  
“She’s not my maid,” Padmé counters.  She glances at Mehht and Lorian steps closer to both of them.    
  
“Stolen?” Mehht says incredulously.  “She’s a person.”  
  
Padmé gasps in outrage at the implication.  
  
Mehht is still railing at the Twi’leks.  “You don’t own her.  You piece of – “  
  
“Silence!” Taa bellows.  “She is mine and you will tell me where she is.”  
  
“Slavery is forbidden,” Padmé seethes.  She can almost feel Lorian’s hand hovering, ready to pull her out of Taa’s path if necessary, but even that fact isn’t sufficient warning.  She is too outraged, too disgusted to worry about Orn Free Taa’s retribution.  
  
Taa sneers, weaving slightly.  Even at arm’s length, Padmé can clearly smell the Rylothan yurp on his breath.  “Stay out of it, harpy,” Taa growls.  “You wouldn’t know anything about it.  She’s a courtesan.  And she owes me money.  You wouldn’t understand.  You don’t know anything about pleasing a man.  Why don’t you go back to your rock in the Outer Rim and play in the dirt.”  
  
“Enough.”  
  
Anakin’s voice is deathly quiet, but it carries easily.  He grasps Padmé’s upper arm and forces her back several steps, away from Orn Free Taa.    
  
“My Lord,” Taa snarls, “forget propriety.  You could have an Empress.  A real Empress at your side.”  
  
Anakin raises a hand and Orn Free Taa gurgles, scratching at his throat.    
  
“You are going to leave,” Anakin says with barely restrained fury.  “Now.”  
  
Anakin releases the Force choke and Orn Free Taa doubles over, straining for breath.  Korto grabs him, dragging him out the servants’ entrance.  
  
Padmé watches them go and then realizes they’ve created quite the scene.  Anakin turns to look at the crowd.  “There’s nothing to see,” he says darkly.  Almost in unison, people turn away, pretending to be distracted, none of them wishing to incur the Emperor’s wrath.  
  
Anakin looks at Mehht.  “Get her out of here,” he snaps at Lorian.  Lorian dutifully ushers Mehht out the same door Korto just used.  Anakin takes Padmé’s elbow in a light, but unbreakable grip and steers her toward the anteroom where they met Luke and Leia earlier.    
  
Padmé avoids meeting the gaze of anyone they pass.  Orn Free Taa was raging. No doubt his insults are already on HoloNet.  Her cheeks burn with humiliation.  And insecurity eats at her.  What if Taa was right?  What if she is a joke?  Forget Ta’a Chume.  What if Padmé is her own worst enemy and it was a mistake to return to Coruscant?    
  
She hates this.  She hates doubting herself.  She hates the reason she needed to return.  And damn it, her pride is wounded – grievously so.  And now Anakin is parading her through the Grand Ballroom when all she wants to do is curl up and hide.  
  
As soon as they enter the anteroom, Padmé jerks her elbow.  Anakin allows her to pull free, at the same time using the Force to shut the door behind them.    
  
Padmé spins around to face him.  “Do I look like a real  Empress?” she asks bitterly.  
  
His eyes rake over her, but he hesitates for a moment before he answers.  “Of course,” he replies.  
  
She steps closer, eyes narrowing.  “You’re lying,” she says.    
  
His lips pull into a thin, grim line and she knows she was right.    
  
The knowledge wounds her unexpectedly – even after all the vitriol Orn Free Taa just spewed.    She goes on the offensive before she even realizes what she’s doing.  “Perhaps someone more refined then,” she offers acidly.  “Maybe Ta'a Chume.”    
  
Her anger seems to amuse him and his lips curve into a small smile.  His gaze traces over her body and he doesn’t bother to hide his obvious approval.  “You misunderstand me,” he says.  
  
“Then perhaps you should explain yourself,” she replies curtly.  “Because it sounded like an insult to me.”    
  
His gaze narrows, and warning prickles tingle across her exposed skin.  She’s so tied up in knots from the evening’s emotional rollercoaster that she can’t think straight.    
  
He takes one step, then another and she forces herself not to retreat.  Anakin is a predator and she has no desire to be run to ground.  He’s standing so close that the hem of her dress brushes the toes of his boots.  Her corseted cleavage brushes against the firm expanse of his muscled chest.  She wants to look up, to glare up at him, but she can’t.  She stares straight ahead at the black synthleather of his tabard, her body tingling with a sensation that's not quite fear, not quite anger.  
  
The knuckles of his flesh and bone hand brush lightly across her cheekbone and she can’t prevent her eyes from fluttering shut for a moment.  “You asked me if you look like an Empress,” he says, his voice low and husky.  
  
She tries to nod, but it’s the barest of movements.  
  
“I don’t know what an Empress looks like,” he admits.  He hesitates for a moment and she senses that he’s struggling for the appropriate words.  “You look like the women from my childhood,” he finally says, his voice so quiet.  “The rich women, wives of the wealthy merchants.”    
  
He touches her again, this time it’s his fingertips against her jaw.  “Your skin is too tan,” he says.  He’s leaning even closer now and she can feel his breath against her temple.  “It’s obvious you’re not from Coruscant.”  His prosthetic fingers curl into the material of her gown, gripping the fabric tightly at her hip, pulling her closer to him.  She doesn’t fight, frighteningly eager to feel the length of his body against her own.  His lips rest against her temple.  “You smell,” he says on an exhale, “like home.”  
  
Blindly, she seeks out his lips.  She can’t prevent the moan that escapes her throat at the first taste of him.  Of their own accord, her arms lock around his neck and he pulls her flush against his body, forcing her up on tiptoe.  
  
Even at their most familiar, Anakin always overwhelmed her senses.  But it's been many long years since he last touched her.  The fact that he’s touching her now, that he finds her desirable  - heat coils in the pit of her stomach.  He breaks the kiss, nuzzling across her jaw and biting gently into the exposed flesh of her neck.  Her mouth opens on a gasp and he pulls her closer, at the same time forcing her backward, pinning her against the wall.  Her fingertips bite into the corded muscle of his shoulders and she tries to wrap one of her legs around his.  The gown's mermaid skirt is too narrow, preventing her.  Anakin solves the problem by grabbing the hem and hitching the material up to her thigh, at the same time insinuating one of his legs between hers.  One of her hands threads through the short hair at the nape of his neck, urging his mouth back to hers.  He complies, kissing her long and hard with teeth and tongue, roughly renewing his claim on her.    
  
Someone clears their throat loudly.  
  
Padmé breaks off the kiss, but Anakin still has her pinned to the wall.  She has to lean to the side to see around him.  Luke is standing in the anteroom, his expression unreadable.    
  
"Your absence is conspicuous," Luke says carefully.  
  
Padmé gently urges Anakin to release her.  He ignores it.    
  
"Ta'a Chume is asking – "  
  
"We heard you," Anakin bites out.  "Leave."  
  
Padmé waits until the door closes behind Luke.  Anakin is breathing hard.  His color is flushed.  She doesn't want to imagine how disheveled she looks.    
  
"Mas Amedda is a fool," Anakin says curtly, "if he thinks Ta'a Chume would prove more pliable than you.  I suspect that tonight's dinner will bring that fact to light."  
  
"You’re not considering a relationship with the Queen Mother?" Padmé asks.  She's already certain Anakin is not, but her pride has been wounded many times today.  
  
With a humorless laugh, Anakin releases her and steps back.  He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the small room.  "One wife is sufficient headache," he says.  "I don't need another."  
  
"Is that all I am?" she asks.  "A headache?"  
  
She stands there, lips swollen, hair falling loose around her shoulders.  The gown is rumpled.  
  
His gaze is intent, cruel.  "What you are," he says, "is a wife in name only."  He steps closer again, forcing her to crane her head back to meet his gaze.  "If you want your charity causes or to play hostess at fancy parties, that's fine.  I will allow that.  But you came here tonight wearing that dress like I'm still a boy and you still set the rules."    
  
She tries to look away, but he grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him.  "Never forget," he says, "that I am your Emperor and your husband.  Everything you have – including your freedom – is at my discretion."  
  
He releases her so abruptly that Padmé stumbles back a half step.  This did not work out the way she planned.  Her eyes burn, but she will not cry.  Not now.  Not in front of him.  He stands at the door, waiting and she walks to an ornate mirror.  She takes longer than absolutely necessary – to annoy him.  She smoothes down her hair and does her best to repair her gown.  There's nothing she can do about her swollen lips or flushed complexion.    
  
She takes a deep breath and joins him at the door.  As his hand fits into the small of her back, she fights the temptation to push him away.  Despite how strained things are between them, she is relieved he seems as eager as she to keep that knowledge private.  


	7. Chapter 7

Despite Padmé's worry that she was trapped in some interminable hell, the formal dinner did finally draw to a close.  At his father's order, Luke escorted Padmé back to her apartment.  Luke was undoubtedly curious about the scene into which he stumbled, but he thankfully did not ask any questions.  Far above Coruscant, the  _Star Home_  welcomed the Queen Mother and her children home – and with any luck, they are already on their way back to Hapes Cluster.  
  
Padmé's night was short and mostly sleepless, providing plenty of opportunity for her to pore over every event.  The evening was both a success and a failure.  She's not particularly surprised.  Duality is definitely a theme when dealing with Anakin.  
  
She knows that she did reach him on some level.  Though, that moment of openness was more than sufficient to trigger his defensive anger and chauvinistic comments.  He hadn't wanted to admit that he was attracted to her, not just physically, but emotionally.  He wanted even less to admit that she reminded him of his homeworld.  And so he went on the attack, putting her firmly in her place.    
  
In retrospect, she realizes she could have handled certain aspects with more grace.  The dress, in particular, wrought as much havoc as progress.  She meant to remind him of a time when he loved her beyond measure.  She succeeded in reminding him he wanted to see what was under the dress.  She also reminded him of a time when he felt powerless and trapped.  She sympathizes.  Those are not comfortable emotions – she should know.  
  
Padmé greets the sunrise with a frown, but forces herself out of bed.  She goes about her morning ablutions, all the while dissecting last night.  She realizes now the grave error she made in assuming that Lord Vader would react in the same manner as Anakin.  As much as she knows they are the same man, she also now knows beyond a doubt that they are fundamentally different.  Lord Vader is much more controlled than Anakin, much clearer in his intentions.  Anakin was always guided by his instincts and emotions.  Lord Vader is far more calculating and mercenary.  
  
He is not her Anakin, but he's also not quite a stranger.  It's some horrible mixture that confuses and wounds her heart.  But she also can't stop the hope that Anakin – her Anakin – is in there somewhere.  Padmé blushes as she thinks about the kiss they shared.  She is embarrassed by how desperately she wanted him – and by how much he must have known that.  He is no longer a young man choosing a path to a life without attachment.  During their courtship she was the more experienced partner – though not by much.  Now, the tables have most definitely been turned.  He is the most powerful man in the galaxy, physically in his prime.  She knows he has not lived a chaste life in her absence.  
  
Now dressed, Padmé pushes the thoughts away.  She doesn't want to think about Anakin and his conquests.  She walks through the apartment, making her way to the veranda.  She stands in the doorway watching Lorian and Mehht argue.  Padmé marvels at how diabolical it is that evil doesn't visibly tarnish a person's physical body.  Assassin or not, Lorian is a handsome man.  Taller than Anakin, but more slightly built, he has blond hair and eyes a brown so deep that they often appear black.  Lorian is older than Mehht, probably in his early thirties and he has enough self-possession to stand his ground with her.  
  
“Good morning,” Padmé says with a smile that does not reach her eyes.  
  
Mehht huffs in Lorian’s direction and then turns her back on him to face Padmé.  “Morning,” she replies.  
  
“So,” Padmé says, “do you mind telling me what exactly it was I was arguing about last night with Korto and Orn Free Taa.”  
  
“Did it matter?” Mehht asks wryly.  
  
“Not particularly,” Padmé admits, “but I am curious.  For someone who claims to feel useless here, you’re doing a very good job of getting into trouble.”  
  
Mehht snorts derisively.  “Trouble,” she says.  “I’d like to show them some real trouble.  How dare they call Tatooine uncivilized.”  
  
"Mehht," Padmé prompts.  
  
"Okay," Mehht relents.  "Her name is Eja Volt and she's a … "  Mehht searches for the word.  " _Courtesan_."  Mehht blushes and pointedly avoids looking at Lorian.    
  
Obviously having no problem discussing prostitutes in mixed company, a small smirk curls his lips.  
  
Padmé ignores the subtext between Lorian and Mehht.  She doesn't want to know.  Shaking her head in confusion, Padmé asks, “How did you find her?”  
  
“You were busy with those …  _Hapans_ ,” Mehht says, her disdain evident.  “So I … poked around.”  
  
“You poked around the Imperial palace during a state dinner?” Padmé asks, more to emphasize the point than for clarification.  She is not shocked that Mehht had her own agenda for the evening.  
  
Mehht nods, trying not to look sheepish.  
  
Padmé looks past Mehht to Lorian.  “Were you watching her?” she demands.  Padmé has made it perfectly clear to Lorian that she expects him to protect Mehht with the same dedication he extends to the Empress.    
  
“Always,” he says blandly.    
  
Padmé narrows her gaze.  She’d bet money that Lorian is the younger son of some snooty aristocratic family from a Core world.  Handsome, educated, over-indulged, eloquent – when he speaks - and not in line to inherit a damn thing.  Spoiled brat.  At least he claims to have been doing his job.  
  
“And you found Eja Volt hiding behind a potted plant?” Padmé asks.  
  
Mehht won’t meet her gaze.  “Not exactly,” she says.  
  
Padmé gives Mehht what Luke and Leia term the look.  It’s been known to stop fully trained Jedi dead in their tracks and give a Sith Lord serious pause.  
  
“They were going to hurt her,” Mehht says vehemently.  “I found her in Korto’s office.  They used a pair of binders to tie her to a chair.  I had to get her out of there before they came back for her.  Orn Free Taa claims she owes him money, but he’s been exploiting her for years.  She’s been a prisoner.”  
  
“And where is she now?” Padmé asks.  
  
“On her way home to Farrfin,” Mehht says.  “I arranged for her to catch a ride on the medical transports headed for the Abhean refugee crisis.”  
  
Padmé stares at Mehht blankly for a moment.  “You arranged all this last night?”  
  
Mehht nods.  
  
Padmé looks at her friend.  “I doubt you’ll take this as a complement,” she says, “but your talents are wasted on Tatooine.”  
  
Mehht crosses her arms over her chest frowning – obviously not taking Padmé’s statement as a complement.    
  
Padmé sighs.  “Now we just have to hope that Orn Free Taa doesn’t find her again.”  
  
“He won’t,” Lorian says.  
  
Mehht and Padmé both turn to look at him.  “How can you be so sure?” Padmé asks.  
  
“Because he’s dead,” Lorian says flatly, like he’s reading the weather forecast.  
  
“Dead?” Padmé asks.  She doesn’t grieve for Orn Free Taa, but his death is a shock.  He was drunk last night, and reckless, but he certainly didn’t appear to be at death’s door.  
  
Lorian nods.  “He was executed.”  
  
Padmé stands in stunned silence.  “Anakin,” she says softly.  
  
Lorian meets her gaze and gives her a small nod.  There is a seriousness, an intensity that is usually lacking in his demeanor.  His expression easily conveys his approval of Anakin’s actions.  “Slavery is strictly forbidden in the Empire,” Lorian says.  “Any sentient species – even Farghul like Eja Volt – are protected.  It was an egregious violation of Imperial mandate and for someone of Orn Free Taa's political stature, there was no way the Emperor could allow it to stand.”  
  
“Mistress Padmé, Mistress Padmé,” Threepio says, hurrying across the veranda.  
  
“Yes, Threepio,” Padmé says, glad for the distraction.  
  
“Mistress Padmé, this was just delivered by Imperial courier.”  He hands Padmé a small white box about the size of a holocron.  
  
Padmé studies the box for a moment, but does not open it.  “Thank you, Threepio,” she says.  “That will be all.”  She has learned over the years that subtlety does not work on the well-meaning protocol droid and right now, she does not want him to linger.  
  
Padmé thinks the galaxy is undoubtedly a better place without Orn Free Taa, but she is not pleased that his blood is on Anakin’s hands.  She’s not shocked.  She had wondered last night how much of her confrontation with Taa Anakin had heard.  Obviously, he heard enough to know that Taa was demanding they return a woman he viewed as a possession.    
  
Slavery is the one human rights abuse that Anakin will not abide.  Having suffered the absolute indignity of being owned by another person – of having his mother owned by another person – Anakin has zero tolerance.  As always, his retribution is swift and brutal.  
  
***  
  
One look at Bail's face and Padmé knows that he's already heard about Taa's execution.  Padmé gives him a wry look.  "I suppose it's all over HoloNet," she says.  
  
Bail nods grimly.  "Your confrontation isn't," he says.  "Not that there isn't talk."  
  
Padmé shrugs out of her cloak and takes a seat at the ODP conference room table.  Bail was at the dinner last night.  She doesn't know if he actually heard any of her argument with Taa, but there were more than enough witnesses.  She wonders just how badly the real story has been twisted.  "Taa had a Farghul consort he was keeping prisoner," she says.  "Mehht liberated her.  Taa wasn't happy."  
  
"I heard Taa insulted you and the Emperor choked him," Bail says flatly.  
  
Padmé winces.  "That's the correct sequence of events," she says.  "But I'm not sure it was necessarily cause and effect."  
  
Bail looks unconvinced, but he has never had much interest in gossip and he generally respects Padmé's privacy.  The rest of the day is spent enmeshed in the work that the former ODP office should have been doing, but obviously wasn't.  Padmé is grateful for the distraction and throws herself wholeheartedly into the cause.  As tedious as it is sorting through the paperwork, Padmé is fairly certain that the former ODP administrator – and companion of Orn Free Taa – Korsa Dae, was diverting Imperial funds.  Padmé just needs to figure out where and why.  
  
Bail leaves shortly before lunch.  There's a vote on the Senate floor that he cannot miss.  Mehht is pacing around the room, itching to track down some information broker by the name of Karrde.  Apparently Eja Volt gave Mehht the names of other people in situations similar to hers and Mehht is determined to help them.  For reasons on which Padmé is not entirely clear, Mehht believes that Karrde is the key.  
  
"Come on," Mehht cajoles.  "We can find him."  
  
Padmé sighs.  She can think of at least a hundred tortures she would rather endure than bouncing from low-rent tapcaf to low-rent tapcaf in pursuit of a shadow.  Truth be told, it isn't so much the futility of the exercise that she dreads as it is potentially being recognized in public.  She hates to admit that.  It feels so petty.  People are in distress and need help, but she cannot bear the thought of opening herself up to public ridicule.  Last night's wounds are too fresh and she doesn't wish to give the HoloNet reporters fresh fodder for the gossip mill.  
  
"I'll com Luke," Padmé says, more to Lorian than to Mehht.  "Surely if he comes to babysit me you can escort Mehht."  
  
Mehht looks pleased, positively giddy at the idea of saving more unfortunate souls.  Lorian seems significantly less enthused.    
  
Padmé contacts Luke via comlink.  He sounds distracted and is far more terse than usual, but he agrees to come to the ODP offices as soon as possible.  It's more than an hour before he arrives, dressed in a flight suit, a bag thrown over his shoulder.  
  
"I didn't know you were going somewhere," Padmé says.  
  
"I'm not," Luke replies brusquely.  At Padmé's wounded expression, he relents.  "I'm sorry," he says.  "Just let me change.  I'll explain."  
  
Apparently satisfied by Luke's arrival, Lorian has to hurry to keep up with Mehht as she charges out the door and toward the turbolift.  Padmé envies Mehht her enthusiasm. She clearly remembers feeling so driven to help.  
  
Padmé sits at the conference room table, waiting on Luke.  She’s been through Korsa Dae’s computer terminal and found little of value.  It’s neat, too neat.  Padmé is certain there is something there.  She makes a mental note to ask Anakin about slicers.  Surely a talented slicer could find whatever it was Korsa Dae was hiding.  
  
Luke steps out of the ‘fresher dressed in a simple white shirt and beige pants.  He wears a utility belt to which his lightsaber is clipped and carries the bag in his left hand.  
  
Padmé doesn’t waste any time.  “Where were you heading?” she asks.  
  
Luke sighs, running his empty hand through his hair.  “I need to speak with Father,” he says.  “You should be there.”  
  
Padmé stands, her expression serious.  “Luke, is everything okay?”  
  
He nods, but the nervous energy doesn’t dissipate.  “I’ve been trying to find the right time to … “  He trails off.  “There is no good time,” he says firmly.  “Are you free now?”  
  
“Of course,” she replies, following him as he heads for the door.  
  
***  
  
With a wave of his hand, Luke sends away the porter that meets them at the Imperial palace’s grand entrance.  Luke is obviously more familiar with the sprawling complex than Padmé and does not need a guide.  The short trip to the palace was made in silence.  Luke’s features are set, his jaw muscles clenched tightly.  The last time she saw him in such turmoil, he asked her to return to Coruscant.  
  
Given that Luke doesn’t ask anyone about his father’s whereabouts, Padmé assumes he must be able to locate him through the Force.  In short order, Luke and Padmé enter a cavernous room in the palace’s upper levels.  The room is all gleaming black surfaces and holoprojectors.  No doubt this is the room from which Lord Vader directs the Empire’s war machine.  
  
Anakin looks up at their entrance.  He’s speaking with two of his generals.  There are three other military personnel in the room.  Leia leans against the far wall, a booted foot braced against the wall, arms crossed over her chest.  She gives Luke a smile that borders on cruel and makes a tsking noise.  “Little brother,” she says, shaking her head.  
  
Luke ignores her, stopping in the center of the room.  He clasps his hands behind his back, head held high as he waits for his father to acknowledge him.  
  
Padmé, too, ignores her daughter’s behavior despite how much it wounds her.  As small children, Luke and Leia were always rivals, though at some point Luke ceased his end of the rivalry.  Padmé doesn’t understand it.  She doesn’t know if it’s part and parcel of being a twin.  As the elder child and her father’s favorite, Leia has always been heir apparent.  But there’s no denying that Leia obviously feels threatened by Luke, Anakin’s only son.  Despite the fact that Luke has never shown any interest in following in his father’s footsteps.  
  
Padmé wishes that the twins were closer, that Leia could appreciate her bond with her brother.  Whether Leia realizes it or not it’s a luxury that she can be so distant, so competitive.  Luke and Leia have two loving – if not united – parents to hold them together.  If anything ever happened to Padmé and Anakin, they would be all each other had in the galaxy.  
  
Anakin finishes with his generals and sends them and the rest of the military personnel from the room with a gesture.  He looks at Luke, his features grim.  
  
“You impounded my ship,” Luke says evenly.  
  
“Yes,” Anakin replies, “and I made it clear that anyone helping you leave Coruscant without my express permission would pay dearly.”  
  
Anakin crosses the room to where Padmé and Luke stand.  Leia pushes off the wall and comes closer, but still maintains a good deal of distance.  Anakin makes a slow circuit around his son.  Luke keeps his eyes straight ahead.  When he is once again directly in front of Luke, Anakin says, “You’re going to tell me where it is you’ve been disappearing.”  
  
Luke swallows thickly.  “I didn’t realize I was grounded,” he says, his tone more flip than is probably prudent.  
  
“You weren’t,” Anakin replies.  “Until you made it evident that you were hiding something.”  
  
Anakin waits.  
  
“You  _will_  tell me,” Anakin vows quietly.  
  
“ _Luke_ ,” Padmé pleads softly.  
  
Luke’s eyes focus on her and he sighs deeply.  He looks back to his father, his features resigned.  “Oovo IV,” he says.  
  
Anakin’s features instantly harden.  
  
Padmé’s brow creases.  “What is Oovo IV?” she asks.  
  
“An asteroid in the Outer Rim,” Anakin answers before Luke has the chance.  He looks at Padmé, trying to determine if she is involved in this.  “It houses a detention center, Desolation Alley.  It’s where criminals are sent to be forgotten.”  
  
Padmé steps closer to Luke, her expression beseeching.  “What were you doing there?” she asks in bewilderment.    
  
“Yes, my son,” Anakin says darkly.  “What were you doing there?”  His look gives the impression that he already has a very good idea of what Luke was doing there.  
  
Luke takes a deep breath.  “I went there to speak with Master Kenobi.”  
  
The name has barely cleared Luke’s lips before he’s sprawled backwards on the gleaming black floor, mouth bloody.  Padmé’s attention immediately snaps to Anakin.  He stands there, breathing hard, body shaking with rage, his right hand still extended from backhanding Luke as hard as he could.  
  
Padmé starts to take the few steps to her son, but Luke holds up his hand, stopping her.  Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet.  He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and regards his father with sadness – but not shock.  
  
“Get out of my sight,” Anakin seethes.  
  
Luke’s only response is to bow to his father.  He shoots Padmé one last look before he turns to leave.  There is something in his look, something that keeps her from going to him.  She understands that in this moment, he needs to be a man, not his mother’s son.  As much as it wounds her, she stands her ground.  She watches him go, her heart and mind in turmoil.  
  
Padmé turns back to Anakin.  In light of what just happened, it’s difficult to focus, but she forces herself to bury the tumultuous emotions, if only for a moment.  This is – if not all, then at least a large portion of – why Luke asked her to return to Coruscant and why he asked her to accompany him this afternoon.  She knows he does not wish her to intervene with Anakin on his own behalf, but the same cannot be said for Obi-Wan.  
  
“Obi-Wan is still alive?” she demands.  
  
Anakin doesn’t bother responding, his only answer an ugly sneer.  
  
“Anakin, he was your mentor, your friend –“  
  
“ _Your lover_?” he accuses, his features a twisted mask of jealousy and rage.  
  
She stops, looking at him.  “You know that isn’t true,” she says softly.  She hopes, she  _prays_  that some part of him does actually know it isn’t true.  She wonders what stories he’s told himself over the years.  She knows him.  She knows he’s twisted the events in his own mind, re-casting the truth so that he is the righteous man, not the villain.  
  
Anakin doesn’t bother responding.  He paces around the room, hands clasped behind his back.  His vision lands on Leia.  “Out,” he snaps.  
  
Leia wastes no time heading for the door.  
  
When they are finally alone, Padmé says, “I thought Obi-Wan was dead.”  
  
For a moment, she doesn’t think Anakin is going to reply, but he finally says, “Death would have been too good for him.  I wanted him to suffer.  Alone.  I wanted to take everything from him the way he took everything from me.”  
  
Padmé shakes her head wondering if he truly has gone insane.  “What did he take from you, Anakin?” she asks softly.  “Obi-Wan loved you.”  
  
Anakin spins to face her, his features contorted with rage.  “ _He took you!_ ” he roars.  
  
The words echo in the enormous space.  Anakin is almost shaking with fury, his jaw muscles clenched tightly, nostrils flared.    
  
Padmé doesn’t try to stop the tears that course down her cheeks.  Slowly, she steps closer, like Anakin is some barely domesticated beast that will lash out at any moment.  Deliberately, she raises her hand and presses it to his cheek.  He flinches, but does not pull away.  
  
“I have always been yours, Anakin,” she says softly.  “Even when I hated myself for it.”  
  
She turns to go, leaving him standing in the middle of his war room.  
  
Alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Luke is waiting outside the war room's doors once again holding his bag.  Leia is nowhere in sight.  Padmé walks to Luke’s side and starts to raise a hand toward his split lip.  He pulls away impatiently.  "It's nothing," he says dismissively, wiping at the wound with the cuff of his shirt as he turns down the hall.   
    
Padmé's heart sinks as she follows her son.  They walk several hundred meters before Luke turns onto a side corridor and heads toward a turbolift.  They enter in silence, but after Luke pushes in the appropriate floor, Padmé forces him to turn and meet her gaze.  She takes a handkerchief from her cloak and gently dabs at his lip.  The wound actually isn’t that bad and it has already stopped bleeding, but she still needs to inspect it thoroughly.  More for her well being than his own, Luke allows her to fuss.   
    
Satisfied that there is little else she can do to heal the physical wound, Padmé hands Luke the handkerchief and steps back.  The turbolift stops and Luke leads the way down the hall and into another large corridor.   
    
Padmé knows Anakin's temper is mercurial and vicious, but her stomach is tied in knots with the knowledge that he actually struck one of his children.  "Please tell me this isn't a regular occurrence," she says quietly as they walk side by side down the hall.    
    
Luke rubs his jaw, his expression rueful.  "No," he says.  "That's the first time he's done that.  I knew he wouldn’t take the news well, but I really didn’t expect to get hit."   
    
Padmé takes an infinitesimal measure of relief in Luke's reply.  She knows the atrocities Anakin has wrought, but brutalizing his own children is worse by orders of magnitude.    
    
They walk several more minutes before they arrive at the suite of rooms Luke uses in the Imperial palace.  The rooms aren't luxurious, but they are far more opulent than Anakin's quarters.  A small hallway leads from the doors into a large living room, comfortably appointed with a repulsor couch, several arm chairs and an enormous fireplace.  There's another hallway which Padmé immediately inspects.  It leads to a bedroom, an office and finally to the small galley kitchen she needs.  She rummages through drawers, finding a small towel and using it to wrap up a handful of ice.    
    
Luke is waiting in the living room when she returns and he takes the ice pack with a smile of gratitude.  He has closed the doors and thrown his bag into a nearby chair.  There are large windows in the room with a panoramic view of Galactic City.    
    
Luke walks to the windows and watches ships traverse the high-speed air traffic lanes in the bright midday sun.  He clasps his hands, ice pack and all, behind his back, his stance wide.   It unnerves Padmé how reminiscent his posture is of Anakin.    
    
"Do you think there's any chance Father will release Obi-Wan?" Luke asks, still staring out the window.   
    
Padmé is struck by how young he sounds in this moment.  She realizes that through Luke and Leia know their father has a violent temper, she doubts either of them have ever been in a situation with him that would set off his jealous and possessive nature.  Luke, for all of his wisdom and insight, is still only a sixteen year old boy.  He has no idea the magnitude of issues he's stirred up.  Padmé is torn between a desire to comfort her son and her need to stop trying to protect him from the truth.   
    
"I think it more likely we'll see snow on Tatooine," Padmé says in reply.   
    
Luke's shoulders slump, but he doesn't reply.    
    
"How did you find Obi-Wan?" she asks.  There are empty chairs, but she finds herself too tightly wound to sit.   
    
"Ben?" Luke says, glancing at Padmé.  He shrugs.  "I think he found me."   
    
Padmé waits patiently knowing that Luke wants – no  _needs_  – to tell her this tale.  She watches as he experimentally presses the icepack to his lip.    
    
"I was always drawn to the Temple," Luke says, his vision fixated in the distance on the ruins of the Jedi Temple.  "I found holocrons, records.  I pieced together what happened."   
    
Padmé looks at her son and wonders what story it is that he wove.  It took her years of retrospection to realize just how sinister and devious Palpatine truly was – how perfectly he played the warring factions against one another.  How expertly he manipulated the Jedi and Anakin in particular.   
    
"In my searching, I was drawn to a certain name again and again," Luke says.  "Obi-Wan Kenobi."   
    
"Your father was his Padawan learner," Padmé says.   
    
Luke nods.  "A few years ago I went through Father's personal files.  I found references to Ben and to Desolation Alley.  I couldn't ignore it.  I finally went there and spoke with him.  In secret."   
    
Padmé marvels at her son's nerve.  She is both proud and terrified.  Anakin would be incredibly angry if he discovered Luke went through his private records.  She also knows exactly why Luke sought out Obi-Wan in secret.  His split lip is testament enough to how difficult it is to ask his father for forgiveness, but asking permission would have been a death sentence for Obi-Wan.    
    
"How is he?" she asks, her voice thick.   
    
"Not well," Luke says gravely, turning to face his mother.  He lowers the icepack.  "He's blind, crippled.  I think the only reason he lived this long is because he was waiting on me."   
    
Blinking quickly, Padmé tries futilely to stave off tears.  She knew before she asked what Luke would say.  For Obi-Wan to be imprisoned so long, there was no question as to the grievous nature of his wounds.   
    
"Ben told me the truth," Luke says, his jaw set.  "He told me what happened."   
    
Padmé finally collapses into the chair, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.  She hates what she's about to do, but she can't stop.  As abhorrent as she finds defending Anakin’s actions, she can’t allow Obi-Wan to be the only voice to shape Luke’s perspective.  "You have to understand, Luke," she says, "that Obi-Wan isn't an uninvolved party in this."   
    
Luke looks at her, his gaze narrowing.  "Are you saying Ben is lying?" he asks.   
    
"No," Padmé assures him, "but Obi-Wan is only human.  There were many truths your father chose to keep from him."   
    
Her answer seems to placate Luke and he visibly relaxes.  "Ben says that Father betrayed the Jedi Order, that he led the massacre on the Temple."   
    
Padmé nods, grief-stricken.  "That's true," she says quietly.  "He did what he thought he had to do in order to protect those he loved – as hopelessly misguided as that was.  He also killed the Separtist leaders and ended the war."   
    
Luke nearly growls in exasperation.  "Who was he trying to protect by murdering Jedi?" he demands.   
    
Unshed tears shimmer in Padmé's eyes and her throat constricts tightly.  " _Me_ ," she says on a whisper.  She lowers her head, staring blindly into her lap.   
    
Padmé doesn't know how long she sits there, but eventually she realizes that Luke is crouched next to her chair, his hand laid gently on her arm.  She looks up into his clear blue eyes.  "I'm sorry," she says heavily.  "This is the guilt that kept me on Tatooine for almost fifteen years."   
    
Luke's expression is a mixture of frustration and sadness.  "It wasn't your fault," he says firmly.  "You didn't do this.   _He_  did."   
    
"I know," Padmé says.  Luke's words are completely reasonable and perfectly at odds with the truth in her heart.  "But no matter how horrible his actions, you have to understand that your father did what he believed was necessary – what Chancellor Palpatine convinced him was necessary – to save me.  And you.  And your sister."   
    
Luke’s features harden and he rises to his feet.  “You can’t justify genocide,” he says firmly.   
    
“No,” Padmé agrees, “you can’t.  But he’s your father, Luke.  And your legacy.  And even if you don’t agree, even if you’re repulsed by his actions –  _especially_  if you’re repulsed by his actions – you need to understand the forces that made him the man he is.  Or you’re destined to repeat his mistakes.”   
    
Luke seems to wilt.  He slumps into a chair across from Padmé.   
    
“You know the Tusken ghost camp in the Junland Wastes?” Padmé asks.   
    
Luke looks at her in confusion, but nods.  “The place where the Sandpeople leave sacrifices to the evil ghost that killed an entire camp.”   
    
Padmé nods.  “The evil ghost was your father.”   
    
Luke’s brow furrows and he leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.  “Father left Tatooine when he was a child.”   
    
“We went back,” Padmé says.  “Anakin and I.  Shortly before the massacre of the Jedi at the Battle of Geonosis.  I was an influential Senator and there were several attempts on my life.  The Council sent me home to Naboo with your father as my escort and protector.”   
    
Luke nods and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.  He undoubtedly has figured out that’s how his parents became involved and he’s slightly embarrassed by it.  Nobody wants to think about their parents being intimate.  Luke is already scarred by last night.  It’s such a human reaction that Padmé almost has to smile despite the gravity of the conversation.    
    
Her next thoughts force her mood to sober.  “We didn’t know it at the time –  I didn’t find out until many years later – but Chancellor Palpatine ordered the leader of the Separtists to pay off a group of Tuskens.  Dooku bribed them to kidnap your grandmother, Shmi.  Your father had violent nightmares the entire time we were on Naboo.  Visions of his mother in pain, being tortured.”   
    
Luke’s eyes narrow as he tries to recall details he overheard from conversation snippets throughout his childhood.  “Thirty men went looking for her, but only four came back,” he says.  “That’s how Grandpa Lars lost his leg.”   
    
Padmé nods.  “Your father went out alone,” she says.  “The next morning he returned with his mother’s body.”   
    
Luke looks at the ground.  He has heard portions of the story for years, but no one has ever laid it out so plainly.   
    
“She was still alive when Anakin found her,” Padmé says.  “The Tuskens tortured her for weeks, prolonging her suffering as much as possible.  She died in his arms.”   
    
Luke swallows thickly.  “And he slaughtered the entire village.”   
    
“Even the women and the children,” Padmé says.   
    
Luke rises to his feet and paces to the window.  “It’s inexcusable that she was tortured that way,” he says, “but it doesn’t justify his vengeance.”   
    
“He believed it was his fault,” Padmé says. “He still believes it.  He thinks if he had trusted his dreams, if he had gone to Tatooine earlier, he could have saved her.”   
    
Luke turns to look at Padmé and she forces herself out of the chair.   
    
“The war was so violent,” Padmé says, “and fought on so many fronts.  Our time together was precious and scarce.  I was far into my pregnancy by the time your father found out he was going to be a father.”   
    
Luke squirms and quickly looks away.   
    
“Anakin was elated,” Padmé says.  “But the nightmares immediately started.”   
    
Embarrassment forgotten, Luke once again meets her gaze.   
    
“He was convinced he was going to lose me, that I was going to die in childbirth.  He was unable to foresee if the baby – we didn’t know you were twins – survived.”   
    
Luke is silent, absorbing his mother’s words.   
    
“Palpatine offered him the means to save me – to save us,” she says.  “He took it.  Regardless of the consequences, he took it.”   
    
Luke turns to look at the window, staring blindly for several long moments.  Finally, he turns back to Padmé.  “Why didn’t you ever tell us any of this?” he asks.   
    
“I don’t know,” Padmé says, blinking back tears.  “It was so painful to remember.  Speaking about it seemed impossible.  Plus, Owen and Beru weren’t going to bring it up.  They disapproved wholeheartedly of the life I led, the life your father led and the circumstances that sent me to Tatooine.  They were more than happy to hide it all away from you and Leia."   
    
She takes a deep breath.  "I suspect your father feels the past is irrelevant.”   
    
Luke shakes his head.  “Obi-Wan didn’t tell me about the Tusken camp,” he says.   
    
“Obi-Wan didn’t know,” Padmé replies.  “Your father chose to confide in me and in Chancellor Palpatine rather than in his Master.”   
    
Luke slumps against the back of the chair with a weary sigh.    
    
"Have you lost faith in him?" Padmé asks gently.  "You were so adamant when you convinced me to return to Coruscant."   
    
Luke stares into the unlit fireplace.  He finally looks at Padmé.  "There's good in him," Luke says quietly.  "I can feel it."  He rubs his hands roughly over his face.  "I'm just so confused."   
    
"Obi-Wan loved Anakin like a brother," Padmé says.  "But the path Anakin chose … Obi-Wan couldn't stand back and watch.  Anakin's fall to the dark side killed something inside Obi-Wan.  As far as he is concerned, Anakin Skywalker died sixteen years ago.  Obi-Wan came to me after the slaughter at the Jedi Temple.  He wanted me to tell him where Anakin had gone – so he could find him and kill him."   
    
Luke's eyes go wide and she can feel the war inside him.  He trusts Obi-Wan, considers him a mentor.  She cannot fault Luke for that.  Obi-Wan told him about the past, engaged him in it when so many others – herself included – were complicit in keeping the twins' true heritage a secret from them.  But the lines of loyalty are not clear.  Anakin is his father – dysfunctional yes, but still his father.  Anakin is the one who helped him build his lightsaber, who taught him to pilot a starfighter.  Luke's path is not clear and Padmé does not envy the choices he has to make.   
    
"I couldn't do it," Padmé says on a whisper.  "I couldn't betray Anakin.  I still can't.  I love him.  I have to have faith that even if he's too far gone to save himself, that he still has the strength to save Leia from his fate."   
    
***   
    
Staring into the fire Luke lit in the hearth, Padmé slowly sips her H'Kak bean tea.  She is drained emotionally and physically from the day's events.  Luke is in the 'fresher showering and changing the clothes bloodied by his split lip.  Outside the windows, the sky darkens as dusk fades into evening.   
    
Padmé reflects on the words she said to Luke.   _I love him._   She was shocked to hear herself speak those words.  She loves the memory of her Anakin Skywalker.  Without a doubt, Emperor Skywalker, Lord Vader provokes a tumultuous rush of emotions in her.    
    
 _But love?_    
    
She doesn’t know.  She doesn’t  _want_  to love Lord Vader.  She was proud to love Anakin Skywalker, to be his wife.  That sentiment does not extend to Lord Vader.  Loving Lord Vader would feel shameful.   
    
She shifts in her chair, setting the mug on a nearby table.  As she shifts, something digs into her hip and she reaches into the pocket of her cloak.  She removes the white box that Threepio handed her this morning.  Was it only this morning?   
    
She turns it around in her hand.  It looks innocuous enough.  The only detail Threepio offered was that it was delivered by Imperial courier.  Exhaustion makes her reckless and she releases the clasp on the box, peering inside.   
    
In the dim light, the gem twinkles.  Padmé stares into the box for several long moments.  With a curious expression, she tips the box, dropping the gem into her palm.  She holds it up to the firelight.  The gem is a rectangular, step-cut sapphire of the deepest blue threaded onto a strand of braided chersilk.  Onto the surface of the sapphire is etched the same Tatooine sand symbol as her Japor snippet.   
    
Padmé ignores the way her eyes burn and pushes herself to her feet.  From the moment she returned to Coruscant, she has tiptoed around Anakin, afraid to provoke his wrath.  In this moment, she is finished tiptoeing.  She has assumed many roles when speaking to Anakin; concerned mother, dutiful former Senator, friend of Obi-Wan.  Right now, she needs to speak with Anakin.    
    
As his  _wife_.   
    
***   
    
Anakin is in the ballroom again.  Not the Grand Ballroom where they hosted the Hapan dinner last night, but the Fijisi wood ballroom where she found him training the first time she visited the Imperial Palace.  The porter who escorted her from Luke's suite walks her to the base of the stairs and then with a quick bow, retreats, leaving them alone.   
    
Anakin steps through lightsaber forms and judging by the way sweat plasters the fabric of his shirt to his body, he’s been at it since the altercation in the war room.  His hair is completely sodden, making it deceptively dark.  His skin is flushed from physical exertion and the scar over his right eye stands out sharply.   
    
He gracefully executes three moves in quick succession and fluidly turns to face her, deactivating the lightsaber blade.  He’s breathing hard and his jaw is set in a rigid, defiant expression.   
    
She doesn’t say a word as she crosses the room to stand directly in front of him.  With equal silence, she takes his right, leather-clad hand and presses the sapphire to his palm.  She turns, walking back to the grand staircase.   
    
“You don’t like my gifts?” he demands.   
    
She immediately turns, glaring.  "You hit my child," she seethes.   
    
"He's not a child," Anakin replies coldly.  "He's a man.  And if he had been any other man, I would have killed him where he stood."   
    
With a look of disgust, she again turns to the stairs, striding angrily toward them.   
    
“Padmé,” he barks.   
    
She ignores him, taking the stairs two at a time.   
    
“Padmé!”   
    
With a growl, he clips his lightsaber to his belt and bounds up the stairs.    
    
Before she reaches the top, he’s right behind her, sapphire still clutched tightly in hand. He doesn’t reach out.  She doesn’t slow.  He’s half a step behind her and Padmé knows in the back of her mind that this is absurd.  A physical confrontation with Anakin is pointless and bound to be humiliating.  She can’t possibly win.  But something in her cannot stop and will not surrender.  Not this time.   
    
She pushes her meager weight against one of the gargantuan doors at the top of the stairs.  She slips through the opening, shoving it closed with one hand even as she strides down the enormous corridor.  She can hear Anakin’s growl of irritation as the door swings closed at him and he easily pushes it out of the way.   
    
She’s almost running now, swinging her arms and walking as fast as her legs will carry her.  Anakin easily falls into step next of her, apparently contented to simply keep pace.  Her teeth grind together.  Her heart is pounding like she’s about to have a coronary and he looks like he’s out for a gentle stroll.  She stops abruptly.   
    
He takes another step and gracefully pivots, turning to face her.  He crosses his arms over his chest and smirks at her.  For once, his smirk is playful rather than malicious.    
    
Her glare narrows even further.  “I am  _not_  playing with you,” she fumes.   
    
Her words sober his mood and the smirk disappears.  After a moment of hesitation, he once again holds out the sapphire.   
    
She smacks his hand out of the way and only his Jedi reflexes prevent the sapphire from falling to the ground.  “You can’t buy me off,” she informs him curtly, stepping around him and continuing down the hallway.   
    
“I wasn’t trying to buy you off,  _Senator,_ ” he replies, this time falling into step directly behind her.  His feet hit the floor milliseconds after her feet leave it.   
    
She ignores him and continues to stalk down the corridor.  They walk for a minute, then another in silence.  Padmé looks around and realizes she has no idea where she’s going.  She stops, swiveling to face him.  She glares up at him and he looks down at her, their faces mere inches apart.   
    
“You’re lost,” he says smugly.   
    
“I’ll figure it out,” she replies, turning away.   
    
He sighs as she strides away.  He lets her get a dozen paces ahead before he follows.  Padmé doesn’t know how long she walks, but the windows they pass show that evening is giving way to night.   
    
“Where’s Lorian?” Anakin asks.   
    
“I sent him to The Works with Mehht,” Padmé replies sharply.  She doesn’t want to talk to him, but she also doesn’t want Lorian to be punished for following her explicit orders.   
    
“And Luke?”   
    
She stops walking and turns to face him.  “Luke was in the shower when I left,” she says.  “ _Washing the blood off his face.”_    
    
Anakin has the decency to look away.  He stares at a window, then the wall, then the floor.  Finally he meets her accusatory stare.  “It wasn’t one of my finer moments,” he grudgingly admits.   
    
Padmé knows that’s as close as either she or Luke is going to get to an apology from him.  She crosses her arms over her chest, still glaring.   
    
“What do you want from me?” he demands.    
    
“Nothing, Anakin,” she replies sharply.  “I don’t want anything from you.”   
    
***   
    
Patience was never one of his virtues.  She suspects it still isn’t.  But he is patient tonight.  Either that or he intends to let her walk herself to exhaustion.  Even if that isn’t his plan, it’s working.   
    
She has walked for hours, too proud and too angry to ask for directions or help.  Her feet and calves ache.  She slows her pace and eventually comes to a stop.  He continues walking until he's even with her.   
    
She looks at him.  "Where is Luke's suite?" she demands.   
    
He points over his shoulder in the opposite direction.  "About a three hour walk that way," he says.   
    
She growls audibly wishing she had something to kick.   
    
"My rooms are just up the hall," he says.  "You can com' Luke and have a seat while you wait for him."   
    
"Do you even have a chair?" she demands.  "I don't remember seeing one.  I'm not sitting on the floor.  And don’t think for one second that I’m going anywhere near your bedroom or your sleeping couch after the way you spoke to me last night."   
    
He has the decency to look contrite.  "I have a chair," he assures her.   
    
He takes the lead and she follows him the several hundred meters up the corridor and around a bend to his quarters.  The door hisses shut behind them and he takes a tall metal stool from where it's tucked under one of the workbenches and motions for her to sit.    
    
Anakin moves to dig in his pocket for his comlink, but first he looks at the sapphire rune in his hand.  He glances at her cautiously.    
    
"Don't you dare," she seethes, taking a seat on the stool.  "You will  _not_  placate me with baubles.  I'm insulted at the implication."   
    
"I'm not trying to placate you," he says, frustrated, but not angry.    
    
His expression is so utterly clueless that were the circumstances any less grave than they are, she would have laughed.  She isn't laughing.   
    
"Why are you insulted?" he asks rather than demands.   
    
"The  _only_  reason you gave me that is because Ta'a Chume embarrassed you," she snaps.  "And for you to try and re-create my Japor snippet …" she falls silent, sputtering in exasperation.  "I am  _not_  one of your women and a shiny trinket will not put you back in my good graces."   
    
" _One of my women_?" he repeats.  "What is that supposed to mean?"   
    
She slides off the stool, rising to her full height as she glares at him.  "You have the gall to accuse me of infidelity when you know damn well that you're the  _only_ man I've ever been with.  You punished Obi-Wan for it.  You  _killed_  Nar Dooja.  Do not pretend for one second that you've been faithful to me."   
    
He crosses his arms over his chest.  Pointedly, he looks around the room.  "Does this look like a lair of seduction to you?" he asks.   
    
Her glare is withering.  "The location is quite irrelevant to me," she bites out.  "Though I suspect that you are just twisted enough to think that if it isn't happening in your bedroom that it doesn't count."   
    
He falls silent, realizing that his lame argument won't work.  She finds it quite pathetic that he is challenged so rarely that he thinks his flimsy rebuttal would mollify her.   
    
"Are there other heirs to the Empire I should know about?" she demands.  "Should Luke and Leia be worried about half-siblings trying to take their places."   
    
This time he does look quite offended.  He steps closer and leans in toward her, a nasty expression on his face.  " _You_  are the mother of my children," he says.  "My  _only_  children."   
    
She watches him cautiously for a moment, but begrudgingly believes him.  With a huff, she turns, resuming her seat on the stool.  He gives her the comlink and she calls Luke who is relieved to hear from her.  He promises to arrive shortly.   
    
Padmé returns the comlink to Anakin and leans back in the chair.  It's not very comfortable.  She tries to make the best of it.   
    
Anakin stands on the opposite end of the room, leaning against the dull gray wall.  His hair and shirt have dried from his training session, but look worse for the wear.  The shirt is rumpled and his hair, though short, is sticking up at odd angles, doing its best to curl.  He doesn't look Imperial.  He looks like a spacer who hasn't had shore leave in months.   
    
Pointedly glancing around the room, she says, "Why bother being the Emperor if you're going to live like this?  Your room at the Jedi Temple was nicer than this hole.  It looks like the Lars homestead garage."   
    
His gaze travels the room and he shrugs.  "I like it," he says.   
    
"No you don't," she counters.   
    
Frowning, he says, "It feels familiar."   
    
That answer, she believes.  As a slave and then a member of a monastic order, he certainly should be accustomed to austere accommodations.   
    
She crosses her legs, her foot tapping the air impatiently.  "Why did you kill Palpatine?" she asks baldly.  "As Emperor, you let Mas Amedda run the government.  Korto handles all your personal affects.  Palpatine handed you the military as soon as he declared himself Emperor.  I don't understand why you needed more."   
    
He pushes off the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he meets her gaze.  "Palpatine was evil," he says.   
    
"I know," she replies dryly.  "He had company."   
    
He walks to the workbench and picks up a broken droid part.  He turns it over in his hand.  "I didn't want to be Emperor," he admits, not meeting her gaze.   
    
She snorts derisively.  "I remember you making me an offer to the contrary."   
    
He turns his head and looks at her.  "And I remember you refusing."   
    
"It wasn't any fun if you weren't going to have a playmate?" she asks, her voice thick with sarcasm.   
    
"As you've already pointed out," he counters, "I can't do it alone.  I'm not any good with politics or infrastructure or paperwork.  Palpatine had all that figured out.  He knew how to make people work for him, how to manipulate them into a corner to accomplish exactly what he wanted."   
    
She eyes him cautiously.  "Even you?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow.   
    
"Most of all me," he says with a humorless laugh, setting the droid part back on the workbench.  "I was Palpatine's monster, the big scary creature in black to strike fear into the heart of the Republic so no one would dare defy him.  I was his vengeance, his anger, freeing him up to play the role of benevolent dictator."   
    
"And the monster chose to bite his Master's hand?" she baits.   
    
He turns to face her, leaning a hip against the workbench.  He studies her carefully.  "No," he says.  "I didn't plan to kill him."   
    
Padmé fights the urge to laugh.  "Was it an accident?" she asks.  "He slipped and fell on your lightsaber?"   
    
Anakin's lips quirk into a hard, humorless smile.  Obviously, he isn't accustomed to being questioned in any capacity, much less being given a hard time.  "No," he replies.  "He didn't slip.  I hated him.  I wished him dead.  He promised me the power to save you – and I did.  But at what cost?  You couldn't even bear to look at me.  No, I hated him.  I hated what he turned me into."   
    
Padmé watches him for several long moments.  She believes his sincerity, but she still isn't inclined to feel any compassion for him.  "And yet you didn't intend to kill him?" she asks.   
    
"In theory, yes.  But an actual plan, no.  I had too many weaknesses, you, Luke, Leia."  He shrugs and runs a hand over the growth of stubble on his jaw.  "That was Palpatine's mistake," he says, "I already knew the score, but he wanted to drive home the point.  It didn't turn out like he planned."   
    
Padmé is truly curious now.  "What happened?"   
    
He meets her gaze, holding it for a long moment.  "Are you sure you want to know?" he asks.   
    
She nods, filled with bravado even though she isn't certain she wants to know.   
    
"He summoned me to his throne room," Anakin says.  "He was there – with Luke and Leia.  I acted before I formed a thought."   
    
Padmé's blood runs cold at the thought of her babies – and they would very nearly have been babies at the time, barely toddling – in Palpatine's grasp.   
    
"That's probably the only reason it worked," Anakin continues.  "Palpatine was the best swordsman I've ever seen – better than Yoda, better than Mace Windu.  I could never have taken him in a fair fight.  But I reacted before I knew what I was doing.  I killed him."   
    
Padmé stares at him in silence.   
    
They both turn as the outer door hisses open and Luke steps into the room.   
    
Luke looks from Padmé to Anakin and back, fully aware that he has stepped into the middle of something.  He takes in their collective disheveled appearance, but is visibly relieved they aren't touching each other.   
    
"Are you ready to go?" Luke asks Padmé.  "Mehht's commed me a dozen times.  She  _really_  wants to speak with you."   
    
Padmé nods to look and then gives Anakin one last speculative glance.  She has no idea what to think of the mercurial creature she married.  She slides off the stool and takes several steps toward the door.   
    
A thought strikes her and she stops.  Turning to Anakin, Padmé says, "I need a slicer to look at Korsa Dae's computer terminal at the ODP offices.  Do you have any good ones?"   
    
Anakin nods, his expression guarded.  He seems as confused as Padmé as to the state of their union, but he doesn't seem inclined to provoke her.  "Taly Fry," he says.  "I'll talk to him."   
    
Turning to Luke, Anakin asks, "You okay?"   
    
"Yes," Luke replies.  He waits a beat, then, "Is my ship still grounded?"   
    
"Yes," Anakin replies firmly.   
    
"Leia took off," Luke offers with a bit too much enjoyment.  "Offworld.  Just so you know."   
    
Anakin pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  "I should have been a monk," he grumbles under his breath.   
    
Padmé ignores him, following Luke out the door.   
  


	9. Chapter 9

“Where have you been?” Mehht demands, racing across the room to meet Padmé at the door to her penthouse.   
    
“Taking care of family business,” Padmé replies.  Hastily, she tacks on, “And securing a slicer to work on Korsa Dae’s computer terminal.”   
    
Mehht grins from ear to ear.  “We found him,” she says smugly.  She grabs Padmé’s arm, positively giddy.  “Karrde,” she squeaks.  “We found him.”   
    
Padmé smiles at Mehht, patting her on the arm.  She shoots a glance at Lorian who is standing at attention near the far wall trying – and failing miserably – to remain stoic in the face of Mehht’s enthusiasm.  “I take it you made progress,” Padmé prompts.   
    
“Yes,” Mehht says with a great deal of satisfaction.  “We got a list of slavers and a few addresses of high ranking Senators who are engaging in trafficking.”   
    
Handing her cloak to Sullee, Padmé frowns.  “I’m not sure this falls under the ODP purview,” she says seriously.   
    
Mehht arches an eyebrow.  “Are you going to let that stop us?” she asks.   
    
Padmé thinks about it for a moment.  “No,” she admits.    
    
Luke gently touches her shoulder and Padmé turns to face him.  “It’s late,” he says.  “I’m going to head back to the palace.”   
    
Frowning, Padmé brings her hand up and presses two fingers gently to his cut lip and bruised jaw.  “Are you okay?” she asks quietly.   
    
“I’m fine,” he assures her.  He leans forward and quickly pecks her on the cheek.  “Sleep well,” he says.   
    
Padmé watches him leave and turns back to Mehht.  Mehht is so excited and Padmé wants to humor her, but she is also tired.  “Do you mind if we discuss the specifics in the morning?” she asks.  “I must have walked ten kilometers today.  I’m exhausted.”   
    
“Ten kilometers?” Mehht repeats, frowning.  “What did you do today?”   
    
Padmé laughs mirthlessly.  “I’ll tell you in the morning,” she says.   
    
***   
    
Two days later, Padmé frowns at Bail across the ODP conference room table.  “I still don’t understand why Karrde would be so helpful,” she says skeptically.   
    
Bails nods in agreement.  "I'm not certain either," he says.  "Karrde may have no love for the Empire or corrupt Senators, but as far as I know, he's not affiliated with the Rebellion."   
    
Padmé takes her mug and stands, turning her back to Bail as she makes her way to the credenza along the far wall.  She takes her time pouring more caf.  This is the third time that Bail has mentioned the Rebellion since she returned to Coruscant.  It discomfits Padmé greatly.  Despite her private war with her husband, she has no desire to engage in actual, literal treason or subversion.   
    
"Apologies," Bail says.  "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."   
    
Padmé turns to face him.  She takes a drink of her caf and looks at him over the rim of the mug.  She lowers the cup, wrapping her hands around it to warm them.  "Yes you do," she says softly.   
    
He scoffs, rising to stand.  One wall of the conference room is made of transparisteel and he looks through it out into the ODP's outer office, making sure they're alone.  They are.  Lorian, despite explicit instruction from Lord Vader to the contrary, left Padmé's side in order to escort Mehht to The Works.  Padmé almost felt sorry for Lorian.  He certainly didn't want to disobey his direct orders, but when Mehht made it quite clear she would go with or without him, he relented.   
    
Bail finally turns his head to look at Padmé and a wry grin twists his lips.  "Perhaps I do intend to make you uncomfortable," he admits wearily.  He sighs, sinking back into his chair.  "I don't mean to cause you trouble," he says.  "It's just that you were always one of my staunchest allies and you are the one person in a position to exert real influence over the Emperor."   
    
"I'm not sure how much influence I have," she replies honestly.  She hasn't spoken to Anakin since their verbal skirmish in his private quarters two days ago.  "And truth be told, I need to save it to lobby for concessions that have nothing to do with the state of the Empire."   
    
"Leia?" Bail asks.   
    
Padmé nods, returning to the conference room table and sinking into the chair opposite Bail.  "Is it that obvious?" she asks.   
    
He meets her gaze unflinchingly. "Many people worry about the future of the Imperial princess," he says.   
    
Padmé sighs and sets her caf on the table.  "I don't know what to do," she says.  "It's my fault.  I'm her mother.  It wasn’t as noticeable on Tatooine. She’s always been restless.  But here … In different surroundings she seems like a different person.  I should have done something long ago."   
    
"Would it have helped?" he asks seriously.   
    
"I don't know," Padmé admits.  "I know I raised her better than this – to be a better person."   
    
"She does have two parents," he says pointedly.   
    
"She does.  But it's not that simple," Padmé says, exasperated, but not unkind.  "It's so easy to blame Anakin for all of this, but the truth is that Leia is in some ways more dangerous than him.  Anakin doesn't flinch from doing whatever he thinks he needs to do to justify his ends.  He's misguided, egomaniacal, self-indulgent …  But he doesn't take enjoyment in the atrocities he perpetrates."   
    
Padmé thinks back to the conversation in Anakin's private quarters two nights ago.  It wasn't exactly friendly, but it was at least honest and open – more of a real conversation than she's had with him in the last sixteen years.  She supposes her feelings on the matter should just confirm her fears – her marriage is dysfunctional to perhaps an unsalvageable extreme.   
    
Bail seems disinclined to accept Padmé's assessment of Anakin, but he doesn't argue.  "And Leia?" he prompts.   
    
Padmé shrugs.  "I don't know," she says, thinking back to the look of cruel satisfaction on Leia's face when Anakin reprimanded Luke.  "She's still so young I have to believe there is hope."   
    
"Leia is quite adept at politics," Bail says.  He holds Padmé's gaze and she can almost hear his thoughts in her own mind.   _As was Palpatine._    
    
"I know," she says quietly.    
    
The office's outer door hisses open and both Padmé and Bail glance toward the transparisteel wall.   A man walks into Padmé's line of sight.  He appears to be near her age.  He is tall and thinly built, his red hair graying at the temples, eye color obscured behind a pair of antiquated thick wire-rim spectacles.  He steps into the conference room and bows deferentially.  “Empress Skywalker,” he says quietly.   
    
“Talesan Fry,” she responds kindly, rising to her feet.   
    
Padmé met Taly during the Clone Wars, but never knew him well.  He owned a very prosperous security company and developed a revolutionary code breaker which he offered to the highest bidder.  An old friendship with Obi-Wan was the reason he made his first offer to the Republic.  He eventually paid dearly for his sentimentality.  He was betrayed by one of his closest confidants, the code breaker was destroyed and the Separtists ruined his corporate headquarters on Genian.  Taly was astonishingly bright and driven and Padmé fully expected him to recreate his former success, but in the twenty years since the skirmish at Genian, she hasn’t heard his name.   
    
“I didn’t realize you worked for the Empire,” Padmé says, offering him a chair.   
    
He declines with a shake of his head, preferring to stand.  “I don’t,” he clarifies.  “I am doing this as a personal favor to the Emperor.  These days I prefer to keep a low profile.”   
    
Padmé nods and does not press him further.  Who is she to question someone who wishes to live a life of obscurity?   
    
Taly shifts uncomfortably, obviously ill at ease with small talk.  “The Emperor said you had a computer terminal you wished me to inspect,” he says.   
    
“Yes,” Padmé replies.  “Right this way.”  She leads him to Korsa Dae’s terminal.   
    
***   
    
“Byss?” Padmé says, her brow furrowing with a frown.   “I don’t even know where that is.”   
    
“Name doesn’t mean anything to me either,” Taly says.  “I had to cross-reference the coordinates with the Imperial star charts to get a system name.  It definitely looks like funds were diverted there, not just from ODP but from other Imperial agencies as well.  I can’t say for certain without examining more of the upstream systems, but right now, this looks much bigger than one greedy departmental administrator.”   
    
“Can you locate the upstream systems?” Bail asks, leaning over the back of Taly’s chair, staring at the lines of machine code Taly is obviously reading.  Realizing the futility of his efforts, he rises to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest.   
    
Taly shrugs.  “Theoretically yes,” he replies.  “Provided they don’t know we’re on to them, I should be able to glean more information.  If they haven’t been meticulous about clearing their logs, I might be able to find more end terminals.  That would give us a better idea of who is involved.”   
    
“Financial institutions,” Padmé says.  She can’t read the machine code either, but she knows this definitely involves money.  A lot of it.   
    
“Yeah,” Taly says.  “And if I’m not mistaken, one of these upstream systems looks like it’s tied to the Senate.”   
    
“What do you need to continue?” Bail asks.   
    
Taly swivels in his chair, looking up at the much larger man.  He pushes his spectacles up on his nose.  “I’ll make a list,” he replies, undaunted.   
    
***   
    
Padmé is watching Bail as he sifts through Taly's list of supplies and requests.  The outer door to the ODP office hisses open and Padmé turns, expecting to see Lorian and Mehht.  Instead, she looks directly into Anakin's blue eyes.  Her posture immediately stiffens and she reflexively takes a step backward, away from Bail.   
    
Anakin takes note of her movement and his lips curl into a rueful smile.  She takes that to mean he's still nursing the wounds she delivered to his ego.  If that prevents him from accusing Bail of becoming her newest lover, she considers it time well spent.   
    
Having noticed the newcomer, Bail turns to face him.  "My Lord," he says with a small bow.   
    
"Senator," Anakin replies with a tight frown.   
    
Padmé steps away from Bail and crosses the room to stand in front of Anakin.  "Is there something wrong?" she asks quietly.   
    
"My sixteen-year-old daughter is still offworld," he says flatly.   
    
Padmé watches him for a moment, then another.  "Is that out of the ordinary?" she asks carefully.  She is probably even less thrilled than Anakin that Leia is running wild around the galaxy, but it's hardly news.  Much to their parents' chagrin, both twins tend to do what they want when they want without consulting anyone for permission.  The twins will be seventeen this year.  Padmé fears that it is far too late to try and rein them in.   
    
"Not in my experience," he says.  "Is it in yours?"   
    
She shakes her head and is at least marginally reassured that it's not only her failure as a mother that's at issue.  Apparently Anakin, with all the resources of the Empire, has no better luck keeping track of Leia than she does.  At least on Tatooine Leia usually only made it as far as the backseat of Chiski Roan's speeder before Typho tracked her down.   Padmé thinks it should be easier to keep tabs on her daughter.  Unlike Anakin and Luke, Leia seems to have little interest or proficiency in piloting.  However, the deficiency has never hindered Leia.  She is quite adept at finding adequate transportation to wherever it is she wants to travel.  
    
Padmé frowns at Anakin.  "Did you come here to talk about Leia?" she asks.   
    
"No," he says, shaking his head.  "Lorian contacted me.  He has been detained and didn't want to leave you without an escort."   
    
" _Oh_ ," Padmé says, shocked that Anakin would be bothered to take care of such a mundane task.  "Isn't Luke available?" she asks.   
    
"I don't know," Anakin replies, lips pursed tightly together.  "That boy has succeeded in testing every ounce of patience I have over the last two days so I decided to spare myself the headache of asking."   
    
Padmé doesn't know how a well-adjusted father should relate to his teenage son.  She does know that she finds the idea of Anakin and Luke engaged in a war of mutual annoyance and aggravation to be far more palatable than the idea of them trading physical blows.   
    
"Well, we're," she points over her shoulder at Bail, "still going over a few things."   
    
"I can wait," Anakin says, taking a seat in one of the chairs that line the wall.   
    
Padmé stares at him in bewilderment.  "Um, okay," she finally says lamely and returns to speak with Bail.   
    
Bail turns from where he's watching Taly, pretending not to notice the exchange between the Emperor and Empress.   He looks pointedly at Anakin.   
    
"He's waiting," Padmé offers.   
    
Bail looks at her in disbelief.   
    
"Don't ask," she says.  "I don't have an explanation."   
    
Bail and Padmé retreat to the conference room.  Solely on principle, Padmé tries not to hurry.  But the idea of Anakin waiting in the next room makes her sufficiently nervous that she finds herself finishing things earlier than normal.   
    
Grabbing her cloak, she bids Bail good night and heads for the door.  Anakin is standing at attention, waiting.  He ushers her through the door and toward the turbolift that will lead to the rooftop landing platforms.   
    
The ride to the roof is in silence and Anakin solicitously helps her into the transport shuttle.  He takes a seat opposite hers inside the shuttle, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees.  There's a nervous energy about him that Padmé finds very discomfiting.   
    
"Taly will need certain security clearances to continue his investigation," Padmé says.   
    
Anakin nods.  "Lieutenant Piett currently has oversight of the Imperial Security Office.  He can arrange whatever access Taly deems necessary."   
    
Padmé frowns at Anakin.  "You trust Taly that much?" she asks skeptically.   
    
"I trust him to do his job," Anakin replies evasively.   
    
Padmé leans back in the seat, studying Anakin closely.  She well remembers how adept Talesan Fry is at playing politics.  As a child he refused to name Passel Argente, Magistrate of the Corporate Alliance, as the party ultimately responsible for many deaths, including those of his own parents.  Later, Taly blackmailed Argente for the money to start his own security company.   
    
"What does Taly have on you?" Padmé asks, eyes narrowed at her husband.   
    
Anakin meets her gaze.  "Absolutely nothing," he says firmly.   
    
"You're hiding something," Padmé counters.   
    
"Not hiding," he amends.  He drags a hand restlessly through his short hair.  "I just have to figure out how to phrase it."   
    
Padmé's insides go cold at the thought.  Anakin's confessions are never good.  "Tell me," she says tightly.   
    
"You never mentioned that you are investigating Talon Karrde," he says.   
    
"I'm not investigating Talon Karrde," Padmé replies truthfully, knowing that Lorian must have relayed the information.  "Mehht is working with him on her slave trade inquiries.  Why do you care?  You informed me in no uncertain terms that you didn't want to be consulted on my activities."   
    
"Taly's daughter works for Karrde," Anakin replies.  "She handles security, infiltration, the bare bones of information brokering.  Despite my attempts to prevent it, Luke has formed a  _friendship_  with the young woman."   
    
Padmé stares at her husband.  "What aren’t you telling me?" she asks.  "Why does it matter that Taly's daughter works for Karrde or that Luke is her friend?"   
    
Anakin leans back in his seat, his booted foot tapping the floor in agitation.  He stares out the window, unwilling to meet her gaze.   
    
The feeling of dread in the pit of Padmé's stomach grows.  " _Anakin._ "   
    
He looks at her, holding her gaze.  "Taly and his wife, Sekka, were unable to have children.  They adopted Mara with my help."   
    
"What exactly do you mean by  _your help_?" Padmé asks.  She cannot imagine Anakin doing Taly a favor out of the goodness of his little black heart.   
    
"I mean after I killed her mother, I took Mara to Taly and Sekka," Anakin replies bluntly.   
    
Padmé physically recoils from the information.   
    
"It was less than a year after Palpatine issued Order 66, during the Jedi purges," Anakin explains matter-of-factly.  "I didn't know about Mara when I went after Siri.  Not that I think it would have mattered.  Siri never would have gone into hiding, even to protect her child.  I didn't find her daughter, Mara, until later."  He shifts in his seat, dragging his hand through his hair again.  "I didn't tell Palpatine.  If he had known he would have demanded Mara be killed."   
    
Padmé watches her husband, specifically his uneasy body language.  She knows he murdered the younglings at the Jedi Temple.  He has never voiced any hesitation about that action, much less remorse.  Yet she can clearly tell he is conflicted about Mara.  She's not certain why.  Siri – Padmé assumes – must have been the Jedi, Siri Tachi.  Padmé did not know the woman well.  She met her on the same mission where she briefly met Taly Fry.  Padmé knows Anakin knew her better and Obi-Wan in particular had an intense, if not necessarily close, relationship with her.  Though, again, if Anakin so blithely murdered so many of his former brethren, Padmé doubts it is loyalty to Siri Tachi that weighs heavily on his conscience.   
    
Then the reason occurs to Padmé.  "Mara is Luke and Leia's age," she says insightfully.   
    
Anakin nods sharply.  "She's younger by several months," he says.  "But yes."   
    
Anakin killed the younglings at the Temple.  But he did it before his own children were born and he certainly never murdered a child so close in age to his own children.  "You couldn't kill her despite knowing that's what Palpatine would have wanted," Padmé says.   
    
Anakin nods.  Padmé can't decide what she feels for him in this moment, pity, compassion, forgiveness, even anger.  He killed Siri Tachi, but he could not kill her infant daughter.  She is rather disgusted with herself for taking consolation in the fact that Anakin does have limits – even if they are far beyond what most people would find just.    
    
The shuttle lands at 500 Republica and Padmé exits with Anakin close behind.  He escorts her to her penthouse and follows her inside, uninvited.  Typho nods to her in greeting, but does not approach.  Padmé walks through the apartment and out onto the darkened veranda.   
    
She steps to the railing, looking out at the city.  Anakin hangs back several paces.  "There's more, isn't there?" she asks.   
    
"Yes."   
    
She turns to face him expectantly.   
    
"Mara is Obi-Wan's daughter."   
    
The information hits Padmé like a physical blow, but she does not react outwardly.  "Does Obi-Wan know?" she asks.   
    
Anakin shakes his head.  "I do not believe so.  I don't think anyone knows," he says.  "Except me.  And now, you."   
    
"How can you be certain?" she asks.   
    
He shrugs.  "I can feel it in the Force," he says.  "Mara is powerful, but untrained.  I can feel that she is Obi-Wan's the same way that I can feel Luke and Leia are mine – even when I questioned your fidelity, I never questioned that."   
    
Padmé has no idea what he expects her to do with his confession.  The facts don't seem to signal any impending doom.    
    
Anakin seems to read her thoughts and says enigmatically, "I wanted you to know."   
    
Padmé has the feeling that this is a test.  Maybe for her, maybe for himself.  He has admitted his role in a heinous murder, his obfuscation of a young woman's true parentage.  He wants to know how she will react, but more than that – she thinks – he wants to see if he can confide in her, if he can allow someone to know the whole truth of his actions.  He wants to test her reaction, but also his own capacity for disclosure.   
    
"Do you think Mara suspects?" Padmé asks.  "Do you think she would attack Luke to get back at you?"   
    
Anakin shakes his head.  "I have no reason to believe that Mara perceives herself as anything beyond Talesan and Sekka Fry's daughter," he says.   
    
Padmé turns back to the view.  Silence weighs heavy for several long moments.   
    
"Good evening, Padmé," Anakin says.   
    
"Good night," Padmé replies.   
    
***   
    
Padmé is still awake, sipping more H'Kak bean tea in the deep shadows of the veranda as she contemplates her conversation with Anakin.  She's not certain this strange new twist to their relationship is an improvement over the veiled hostilities.  She has no desire to be his confessor and she most certainly will not offer him absolution.   
    
She takes another sip.  Wasn't it just a couple of weeks ago that she pitied the fact that Anakin's only confidant was Korto.  Can she be Anakin's friend?  She doesn't know.  She isn't certain if she and Anakin ever were truly friends.  Their relationship was intense, filled with passion and love – and then, of course, betrayal, deceit and anger -  but friendship?   
    
She knows it would be better for Luke and Leia if she and Anakin were able to make civility the norm rather than the exception.  It would be intensely selfish to knowingly sabotage that prospect just to protect herself.    
    
There is a noise and Padmé turns, watching as Mehht, clad in her worn cloak walks onto the veranda.  Padmé rises to her feet and Mehht startles, her hand reflexively covering her heart.   
    
"I didn't know anyone was out here," Mehht says breathlessly.   
    
Padmé can't see Mehht's face, but she can tell from her tone that something is wrong.  She crosses the veranda to stand by her friend.   
    
At first, Padmé thinks Mehht has been wounded when she notices the small bruise on her neck.  Mehht meets her gaze wordlessly, offering no explanation.  Padmé brushes the hood of the cloak back and realizes it's not a bruise, but rather a love bite on Mehht's neck.   
    
Padmé looks at her friend.  "Are you okay?" she asks carefully.  She will murder Lorian with her bare hands if he harmed Mehht.   
    
"I’m fine," Mehht says rather unconvincingly.  She is pale and her eyes are too shiny.  "I think I may have made a huge mistake," she says in a shaky whisper.   
    
Padmé takes Mehht hand and starts to pull her toward the door.  "Come on," she says.   
    
"No," Mehht counters, pulling back.  "Lorian is in there."   
    
"I don't care," Padmé replies firmly.  "This is your home now.  He won't dictate where you can go."   
    
Mehht's bottom lip quivers and Padmé's demeanor softens.  She pulls Mehht into a hug.   
    
When Mehht finally pulls away, her voice sounds stronger.  "I'm fine," she says with a sad smile.  "I'm just … confused."   
    
"Come on," Padmé says again, more gently this time.  "Let's go inside."   
    
Mehht nods and Padmé wraps an arm around her, ushering her inside the penthouse.  Lorian is leaning casually against one of the walls, talking to Typho about something.  Padmé gives him the evil eye and he automatically comes to attention, his brow furrowed in obvious concern.  He starts to take a step toward Mehht, but Padmé's glare holds him at bay.    
    
Padmé escorts Mehht to the younger woman's bedroom, more confused than ever.  Something physical obviously happened between Mehht and Lorian.  Padmé assumed that Lorian must have treated Mehht poorly, hence her reaction.  But judging from the worry Lorian displayed only moments earlier, Padmé thinks she must have misread the situation.   
    
The two women sit on the bed and Padmé waits several long moments for Mehht to speak.   
    
"Cor would be so  _angry_  with me," Mehht whispers.   
    
It takes Padmé several moments to realize that Cor is Corisen Ryeun, Mehht's deceased fiancé.   
    
"Oh, honey," Padmé says gently.  "Cor would have wanted you to be happy."  Padmé actually isn't at all certain of that.  She didn't know Corisen well, but the few times they met, he struck her as a dim-witted, lazy little whelp who probably would have been angry.  But he's dead and has been for four long years.  His wants are no longer relevant.   
    
Mehht looks at Padmé hopefully, her cheeks wet with tears.  "Do you think so?" she asks.   
    
Padmé nods vigorously.  "Of course," she says firmly.   
    
Mehht sighs, obviously comforted by Padmé's words.  She nervously picks at the threadbare material of her cloak.  "Lorian is just so …"  She sighs again.  "He's so different from Cor."   
    
Truer words have never been spoken.  Corisen Ryeun was a short, stocky nineteen-year-old boy with light brown hair and a severe overbite.  He was uneducated, ignorant and ill-mannered.  But he was also loyal to a fault and he worshiped Mehht.  Lorian is undeniably more complex.  He's older, better looking, smarter, driven, cultured and infinitely colder and harder to read than Corisen.    
    
"Never judge who you will love by who you have loved," Padmé says.  She pointedly ignores any implications the platitude may hold for her own relationships.   
    
Mehht gives her a watery smile.  "I know you don't like Lorian," Mehht says.   
    
"I like Lorian just fine," Padmé replies automatically.   
    
Mehht gives her a wry, disbelieving smile.  "I know he can be difficult," she says.  "But you should see him when we're alone.  He's very different."   
    
Padmé can't help thinking of Anakin.  "I'm certain he is," she replies truthfully.   
    
***   
    
Padmé and Mehht spend another hour discussing Lorian's finer qualities.  Padmé isn't convinced, but she also doesn't feel right trying to dissuade Mehht.  Mehht has been lonely for a very long time and Padmé does not wish to deny her comfort and companionship, despite any misgivings she may have about Lorian.  After all, who is she to criticize others' relationships?   
    
She finally leaves Mehht's room and finds Lorian lurking just outside the door.  His expression is guarded.   
    
Padmé waits for Mehht's door to close and then leans in close to Lorian.  "Break her heart and no one will ever find your body," Padmé says darkly.   
    
Perversely, Lorian smiles.  "Yes ma'am," he replies.   
   


	10. Chapter 10

Padmé can hear the raised voices before she opens the door to the ODP office. Lorian automatically steps in front of her, preceding her into the room. Talesan Fry is standing at Korsa Dae's desk, arms folded over his chest, glaring at a middle aged man in a crisply pressed Imperial uniform. 

"I most certainly will not give you blanket security access to all Senate data repositories," the Imperial officer says. 

"The Emperor instructed me – " Taly starts. 

"The Emperor did not relay the request to me," the officer counters, cutting across Taly. 

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Padmé offers, stepping around Lorian. 

The Imperial officer's eyes go wide and he immediately snaps to attention and bows. "Milady," he says. 

"You must be Lieutenant Piett," Padmé says. 

"Yes, milady," Piett confirms. 

Taly shakes his head derisively at Piett's formality. 

"The Emperor has made it clear," Padmé says, "that Taly should be given the necessary access to continue his investigation." 

"Of course, milady," Piett replies with a crisp bow. He immediately pulls a comlink from his pocket and relays the necessary requests. "It will be done in minutes." 

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Padmé replies. 

Padmé walks into the conference room and removes the heavy cloak she has become accustomed to wearing. Despite having been on Coruscant for weeks, Padmé still finds herself uncomfortably chilled most of the time. Bail's aides, Maxim and Hennah are already at work. 

Taly and Lieutenant Piett continue their brusque negotiation as Mehht and Lorian linger in the outer office, oblivious to the hostilities. Padmé is convinced that it was Mehht's loyalty to her deceased fiancé that upset her last night rather than anything Lorian did. Padmé still has very mixed emotions about Mehht's involvement with Lorian, but she has no specific arguments as to why Mehht shouldn't become involved with him. 

"Milady," Piett says from the door. 

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Padmé asks. 

"Talesan Fry's security clearance has been pushed through," Piett explains. "But despite the Emperor's orders, this is a highly unusual request. I would prefer to leave an Imperial escort to monitor the situation. Is that acceptable?" 

"Yes," Padmé replies. She doubts Taly will appreciate the babysitter, but Piett does have a point. And Padmé still isn't convinced that Anakin is the only one that knows the full truth of Taly, Mara and Obi-Wan. "Will you be leaving an officer?" 

"No, milady," Piett replies. "Unless you have an objection, I will stay myself." 

"That is perfectly acceptable, Lieutenant," Padmé replies. She likes Piett though she isn't certain why. He's overly formal, but he seems competent. He also lacks the slimy, bottom-feeder vibe she has come to associate with most Imperial officers. 

As Piett leaves, Mehht enters the conference room. Padmé takes one look at her face and says, "Let me guess, more clandestine meetings?" 

Mehht frowns and Padmé heads off her reply with an apology. "I didn't mean to belittle what you're doing," she says. Padmé truly doesn't mean to take out her frustrations on Mehht. Without a doubt, Mehht is taking up a cause that needs to be championed. But Padmé can't shake her pre-occupation with the mysterious fund re-allocation, Korsa Dae, Orn Free Taa and how it all ties together. 

"I need – " Mehht says, pointing to the outer office. 

"An escort," Padmé finishes. "I know. Take Lorian. I'll call Typho." 

*** 

Captain Typho, it appears, is not available. "Did he say where he was going?" Padmé asks Threepio over the comlink. 

"I'm afraid not, Mistress Padmé," Threepio replies tersely. "You know how humans are. They rarely consult me in their plans." 

"Thank you, Threepio," Padmé says, lowering the comlink. 

*** 

Anakin looks up from the computer terminal where he is examining fighter schematics. Padmé enters the small office off the Imperial War Room, leaving both Korto and the young Imperial officer who accompanied her outside. 

"Where the hell is Lorian?" Anakin demands. 

"Escorting Mehht," Padmé replies. 

With a flick of his hand, Anakin closes the office door, denying Korto his ringside seat. 

"Lorian has explicit orders not to leave your side," Anakin says darkly, rising to stand, arms folded across his chest. 

"I sent him with Mehht," Padmé replies, sitting down on his desk. 

Anakin watches as she takes a seat on a folder full of top secret intelligence reports, his expression a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. Anakin forces his attention away from the folder - and Padmé's backside. "Lorian works for me, not you," he says. 

Padmé sighs. "Assign me another goon," she says. "Mehht is completely mired in rooting out these slavers and she needs someone to look after her." 

"Send Typho with her," Anakin counters. "Lorian is the most proficient guard I have. I used to have him tail Leia until her skills surpassed his. I don't want him wasting his time babysitting your little moisture farmer." 

"I doubt he thinks he's wasting his time," Padmé says enigmatically. 

Anakin's brow furrows. "Lorian's opinion is of no concern to me. I issued an order. I expect it to be carried out," he says with finality. 

Padmé rolls her eyes at Anakin's high-handed pronouncement, wishing for one minute he could acknowledge that the beings surrounding him are real people with real lives. "Lorian and Mehht are … something," she finally finishes lamely, realizing she isn't certain how to categorize their attachment. 

Anakin's confusion is evident. "What are you talking about?" he demands. 

Padmé gestures with her hand. "Lorian and Mehht are … involved," she elaborates. "Dating maybe, I'm not sure." 

The look on Anakin's face is priceless. Padmé knows he would rather be run through with his own lightsaber than spend another second discussing the love lives of Mehht Whitesun and Lorian Massineau. 

"I told Lorian last night that if he broke her heart that I'd have him killed," Padmé offers only to prolong Anakin's torture. 

"As Empress you're well within your rights to order whatever executions you deem necessary," Anakin replies smugly. 

Padmé frowns. No doubt Anakin speaks the truth about ordering executions. The news does not please her, which is exactly what he intended when he said it.

Padmé shifts on her perch and looks around the office. It's as spare as every other room he occupies with the exception of the Fijisi wood ballroom. The floor is black, the same as the Imperial War Room on the other side of the door. The walls are the same dull gray as his personal quarters. There's no window and the only furniture is a black desk and chair. It bothers her to think of him spending his time here. She wonders what exactly he's doing. She glanced at the schematics when she came in and they don't look like Imperial designs. 

She sighs. "Why can't you accompany me?" she asks. "Surely you could look at these schematics as easily on a datapad as you can on this terminal." 

Padmé seems as startled by the request she just made as Anakin. Trying to mask her own surprise, she fixes Anakin with an expectant look. Padmé isn't certain what possessed her to make the request. She definitely loathes the idea of being assigned another one of Anakin's assassins, but it's more than that. She realizes that she does enjoy their tête-à-tête and she occasionally enjoys looking at him – when the desire to punch him in the face isn't overwhelming. 

"I'm afraid I can't," he says and there seems to be true regret in his tone. "I'm leaving this evening for Csilla." 

Padmé can't prevent the frown that tugs at her lips. "How long will you be gone?" she asks before she can stop herself. 

A smile curves his lips and he cocks an eyebrow. "Will you miss me?" he asks smugly. 

"No," she replies in deadpan. "I'm just wondering how long I have to complete my takeover of the Empire. These things require precise timing." 

He steps closer, leaning in toward her. "Trust me," he says conspiratorially. "You don't want my job." 

Padmé wants to make a cheeky reply, she really does. But he's so close. And his playful manner has suddenly turned serious. 

He's right there. She can clearly see the scar along his right eye. The vibrant, twinkling blue of his irises is exactly the same color as Luke's. She doesn't know why it is that she always forgets just how sinfully handsome he is. 

He leans in and her hand automatically reaches out, cupping his cheek and drawing him near. Their lips meet on a sigh and he steps in closer, causing her to crane her head back as he stoops over her seated form. His kisses are gentle, nipping at her lips as one of his hands comes up to cup her cheek, his thumb playing along the delicate curve of her jaw. 

Some part of her knows she should fear this intimacy. It was only days earlier that he turned her own hunger against her, using it to wound and belittle. But this isn't like the night of the Hapan dinner. The air isn't permeated with volatile emotions. And for better or for worse, she does not fear him. 

"Ani," she breathes. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue tangling wetly with her own. Her hand moves along his jaw, down to the exposed flesh of his neck. She can feel the muscles flex as his kisses become more insistent. She's mesmerized by the taste and scent of him, by how hotly his flesh seems to burn under her fingertips. 

He pulls her closer, gathering her up in his arms and she goes willingly. Her body and soul ache for this, for the feel of her husband's body wrapped around her own. The hard, muscled planes of his are the perfect complement to the soft curves of her own. 

He whispers her name and he sounds so needy, so lost that she pulls him closer. She soothes him with soft, comforting murmurs as her fingers thread through his short locks. She presses soft, chaste kisses across his cheekbone to the scar that Asajj Ventress gave him so long ago. It's the other scars she truly wishes to soothe, the scars undetectable to the eye, that have driven him to this life of aggression and domination. 

The door chimes, but does not open. 

Padmé stops, her arms still wrapped around his neck, her lips pressed to his temple. Her breath comes in ragged bursts, like she's just run a long distance. His body still trembles under her touch, his breathing as labored as her own. 

"My Lord," Korto's voice says through the speaker mounted near the door. "There is an incident in Fobosi District which requires your attention." 

"I informed you I was not to be disturbed," Anakin bites out in reply. 

"Yes, My Lord," Korto says, "but I'm afraid this incident involves your daughter." 

*** 

Padmé and Anakin exit the shuttle in the seedy little port. They go only a few steps before Padmé can hear two male voices raised in anger. One of the voices belongs to Typho who is standing at the base of a nearby freighter's gangplank, blaster drawn and aimed up into the ship’s hold. The ship is a YT series Corellian freighter that looks like it's seen better days. Padmé wonders if it can even make orbit. 

"I don't give a damn," the other man says, apparently the freighter's as-yet-unseen captain. "Someone is going to compensate me for my time." 

"Compensate you?" Typho roars. "You're holding the Imperial princess hostage. You'll be lucky to escape with your life." 

Padmé reaches the bottom of the freighter's gangplank, Anakin at her side. His hand is pressed protectively against her lower back. Typho glances at them. At a nod from Anakin, he holsters the blaster. 

Looking up the gangplank, Padmé can see both the captain and Leia. The captain is a tall, handsome human male with dark, unkempt hair and a cocky smirk. He appears to be in his late twenties. He's standing at the top of the gangplank, blaster in hand. Leia is sitting on the floor at his feet, knees drawn up to her chest, expression sullen. There's a thick metal cuff around her neck and she is clearly unhappy but otherwise seems unharmed. 

As Anakin steps into full view, the captain's cocky smirk is quickly replaced by a sober expression. He looks down at Leia nervously. 

"You really are a princess?" he asks nervously. 

"I really am a princess," she replies dryly. 

The captain laughs mirthlessly and his eyes dart around the interior of the ship. Padmé has the distinct impression he's checking exits in case he needs to make a quick get away. "There's been a big misunderstanding here," he says. 

"Obviously," Anakin says darkly. He extends a hand and both the captain's blaster and a small remote that had been clipped to his belt float neatly into Anakin's grasp. Anakin looks pointedly at the remote and then the collar around Leia's neck. The collar is a crude mechanism, the likes of which Padmé has had the misfortune of seeing in the past. Such devices are packed with explosives that can be detonated by remote. 

Realizing he can't run for it, the captain straightens his spine and meets Anakin's gaze. "It's a dud," he says. 

Leia gives him a look of sheer outrage, springing to her feet. 

The captain shrugs unrepentantly. "How else was I supposed to keep you from tearing my ship apart, Jedi brat?" he asks. 

Leia opens her mouth, but before she can reply, Padmé says sharply, "Leia!" 

Very reluctantly, Leia stalks down the gangplank, clawing at the collar around her neck. When she reaches the bottom, Anakin releases the closure and tosses the useless collar away. He grabs Leia's chin and swivels her head from side to side, inspecting her neck in the light. Satisfied that she hasn't been damaged, he ushers her behind him. 

"Captain …" Anakin says. 

"Solo," Typho supplies. "Han Solo. Smuggler. I tracked him from Aargau." 

Padmé swivels around, looking at Leia. "What were you doing in Aargau?" she demands. 

"Trying to hitch a ride into the Deep Core," Solo replies. "I found her after we'd already left orbit. I ended up having to abandon my run and come all the way back to Coruscant to ditch the little stowaway." 

"Aargau is not far from Coruscant," Anakin replies coldly. 

"Tell it to my customers," Solo counters. "Hyperspace lanes into the Deep Core are extremely temperamental. Not just any pilot can navigate them. Now I'm behind schedule and this whole shipment might be a complete loss." 

"And what exactly would the shipment be, Captain Solo?" Anakin asks darkly. 

"Phrikite ore – " Solo says. 

"Spice," Leia offers at the same time, smiling nastily at Captain Solo. 

Solo gives Leia a withering glare and crosses his arms over his chest, cocking one hip out as he looks down at Anakin. Padmé has to give him credit. Few people, especially smugglers accused of kidnapping the Imperial princess, would be brave enough or stupid enough to stand their ground with the Emperor. She takes note of the second-class Corellian bloodstripes that decorate his pants. Obviously Captain Solo is not lacking in bravery. It remains to be seen if he is also possessed of a sense of self-preservation. 

Growing tired of the situation, Anakin waves his hand in Solo's direction. "Compensate Captain Solo and send him on his way," he says to Typho. 

Typho looks outraged, but Solo smiles smugly. 

"After you relieve him of any illegal cargo," Anakin amends. 

Now it's Typho's turn to look smug while Captain Solo huffs indignantly. 

"Do you have a problem with the terms of our arrangement?" Anakin asks Captain Solo darkly. 

Obviously with great effort, Captain Solo shakes his head. "No. No problem." 

"Good," Anakin replies. "See to it our paths do not cross again." 

"Won't be a problem," Captain Solo bites out. 

The three turn back to the transport shuttle, Leia stalking ahead of her parents. They reach the shuttle and Leia throws herself down into one of the seats. "He treated me like a slave," Leia seethes at her father, "and all you did was take his spice." 

Anakin narrows his gaze at his daughter. "You have yet to explain what you were doing stowing away on a vessel bound for the Deep Core." 

"I would have taken Luke's ship," Leia replies flippantly, "but you impounded it." 

Anakin is not pleased with Leia's demeanor and says, "Well, yes, now you and Luke can enjoy your punishment together. Neither of you are allowed offworld." 

"What?" Leia demands, springing to her feet. "You can't ground me," she sputters. "I'm not a child." 

"Really?" Anakin says smoothly. "You're definitely acting like one." 

Leia stares at her father in outrage and something washes over her, something dark. The consuming fire of rage seems to submerge, replaced by an icy cold fury. She looks from her father to her mother, taking careful note of how closely they sit, of how Anakin's thigh presses against Padmé's. 

In perfect silence, she turns back to her seat and carefully sits down, staring out the window. 

*** 

Padmé paces back and forth on the veranda, trying to ignore the sense of impending doom. Leia hasn't spoken a word since the shuttle ride to the Imperial Palace. Anakin escorted Leia to her suite and informed her in no uncertain terms that she was not to leave the Imperial Palace for any reason. 

Anakin then accompanied Padmé to her own apartment where he remains, watching his wife pace the veranda. 

"You never explained why you're going to Csilla," Padmé says, stopping and turning to face him. "Something to do with the Chiss?" 

Anakin nods, seeming as deeply troubled as Padmé. "I have to finalize the negotiations that were cut short by the Hapan visit," he says. "It can't wait." 

Padmé looks at him and Anakin runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Perhaps I should take Leia with me,” he says. 

“That would only reward bad behavior,” Padmé says. 

Anakin nods again, but clearly does not relish the idea of traveling to the Csilla tonight. What neither he nor Padmé wants to mention is the fact that if Leia decides to leave, it’s doubtful there is anything anyone save Anakin can do to stop her. 

Anakin crosses the few paces that separate them, coming to a stop directly in front of Padmé. She stares blindly at one of the many colorful, potted plants that decorate the veranda. Gently, Anakin reaches out and grasps the Japor snippet between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it lightly. 

“I have to go,” he says. “If I don’t leave within the hour, we won’t make it to Csilla in time for the summit. You know how the Chiss are about timetables and propriety.” 

Padmé nods without looking at him. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

And then he is gone. 

Padmé rubs her cold hands together and turns back to the apartment. She halts at the sight of a short, wiry, middle-aged human male with receding black hair. Typho steps forward, introducing the man as Astor, Padmé’s new guard. Typho explains there are two more guards stationed in the hallway. 

Searching the penthouse, Padmé eventually finds Mehht in the kitchen looking forlorn. “Where’s Lorian?” she asks. 

“He didn’t tell you?” Mehht asks and from her derisive tone, Padmé knows that the he refers to Anakin. 

“No,” Padmé replies. 

“Lorian was reassigned,” Mehht says. “He’s supposed to keep an eye on Leia.” 

Padmé nods. “Anakin mentioned that Lorian was Leia’s guard in the past.” 

Mehht doesn’t reply and it is clear that she’s unhappy with the situation. Padmé bites back the desire to apologize. Lorian is an Imperial guard. Watching Leia is his duty. And it is quite evident that someone needs to be watching Leia. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Padmé says, leaving Mehht to brood alone.


	11. Chapter 11

Mehht looks at Luke and Mara expectantly.  From her seat on the other side of the table, Padmé watches the exchange.  It's far more compelling than picking at her breakfast.   
    
Reluctantly, Mara hands over the datapad, quiet as Mehht scrolls through the information.  Padmé watches Mara intently.  This is the first time she's seen Obi-Wan's daughter and she finds herself looking for echoes of him in Mara's features.  The resemblance is there in the way she squares her shoulders as she waits and the somber slant of her mouth.   But had Anakin not informed her of Mara's true parentage, Padmé never would have suspected.   
    
"I'm not familiar with the last entry," Mehht says, glancing up at Mara.  "Did Karrde add it last night?"   
    
Luke looks at Mara with the same puzzled expression Mehht wears.  Quite obviously to Padmé, Mara is in no hurry to explain the recent turn of events.  Padmé has the distinct impression that Mara was hoping Mehht wouldn’t notice the most recent entry.    
    
Mara takes a deep breath, her eyes not on Mehht, but on Padmé.  "No," Mara says, "Karrde didn't add it.  Leia did.  This morning."   
    
A pit opens in Padmé's stomach.  Why would Leia be turning over information about specific instances of slaves being held in the Empire?  Why would Leia know anything about it?  Mara's demeanor does nothing to soothe Padmé's worry.  The young woman is quite obviously ill at ease.   
    
"The information is incomplete," Mara says.  "If you want the rest of it, you'll have to speak directly with Leia."   
    
"Fine," Mehht says, obviously irritated.  "Let's go talk to Leia."   
    
Padmé rises to her feet.  "I'll go as well."   
    
***   
    
When they arrive at Leia's suite, Lorian is standing guard outside looking bored out of his mind.  He perks up considerably as he catches sight of Mehht.  Padmé herds Luke and Mara inside the suite, leaving Lorian and Mehht a few moments to themselves.   
    
Leia's suite is far more opulent than either Anakin or Luke's quarters.  The large sitting room is upholstered in rich, jewel tone velvets and the floors are highly polished Oro wood planks.  It is a far cry from the tiny room she uses when at the Lars farmstead.    
    
Leia has her back to the door, standing in the open archway that leads out to a small terrace.  She glances over her shoulder and slowly turns to face Padmé, Luke and Mara.  She wears the same icy expression that Padmé saw in the shuttle last night.   
    
"Good morning, Leia," Padmé says gently.   
    
Leia looks at her mother, but does not respond.   
    
Mehht is laughing softly as she and Lorian enter the sitting room, but the happy sound dies as she sees Leia.  Clearing her throat, Mehht wastes no time in saying, "The report you provided Mara was incomplete."   
    
"Was it?" Leia asks, feigning surprise.  She tsks under her breath.  "I guess I'll just have to take you there myself."   
    
"Leia," Padmé says, the warning tone evident in her voice.  "You know your father told you that you aren't to leave the palace."   
    
Leia fixes her mother with a cruel, condescending stare.  "That won't be a problem," she says.  "Angel is right here in the palace."   
    
The sinking feeling Padmé has experienced since last night while speaking on the veranda with Anakin sharpens.  This morning, she was certain that Leia was either trying to waste their time or fabricate excuses to get out of the palace.  But there is definitely more going on than that.  And the name Leia uttered does not sit well with Padmé.   
    
Glancing around the room, Padmé sees that Lorian looks like he would welcome the opportunity to strangle Leia.  Mara looks equally unimpressed with Leia, but less openly hostile.  Padmé has the distinct impression that both Lorian and Mara have a very good idea who Angel is and what exactly Leia hopes to accomplish by taking them all to meet her.  Lorian catches Padmé's eyes and his gentle, almost pitying expression confirms Padmé's every fear.    
    
Nothing good will come of this.   
    
***   
    
Every nerve in Padmé's body feels like it's fraying as Leia directs the skycar driver deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Imperial Palace.  The palace is a monstrosity and Padmé gets lost here more often than not, but she can't shake the feeling that they're coming closer and closer to the section of the palace where Anakin's private quarters are located.   
    
The skycar eventually stops and everyone except the driver exits.  There is a coded door and Padmé follows Leia, expecting her to palm it open.  Leia doesn't.  She swivels to face her mother and motions for Padmé to palm it herself.   
    
With more than a little trepidation, Padmé presses her palm to the reader.  She is not shocked when the doors hiss open.  Leia takes a step back and motions for Padmé to enter.   
    
Padmé swallows thickly, bracing herself.  But before she can move, Lorian gently grasps her arm.  She turns to face him and his expression is so kind that she's taken off guard.  "You don't have to do this," he says quietly.   
    
"Oh, surely for the sake of Mehht's cause, we should," Leia says, her lips curved into a cruel smile.   
    
Lorian shoots a murderous glare at Leia, but dutifully nods his head.  He steps back, releasing Padmé.   
    
Her blood pounding in her ears, Padmé steps into the room.  It's a suite with a similar layout to both Luke and Leia's quarters.  A short hallway leads to a large sitting room complete with fireplace.  The room is lavishly decorated with rich tapestries and polished marble floors.    
    
Padmé clears her throat.  "Angel," she says softly.   
    
"Yes," a soft, feminine voice replies.  The woman to whom the voice belongs turns the corner and steps into view.   
    
Padmé hears Mehht's gasp and knows the hand on her shoulder belongs to Luke, but she can't move.  She's rooted to the spot.  She wondered what game Leia was playing and she admits that this is far worse than anything she expected.  Part of her anticipated walking into this room and finding one of Anakin's mistresses, his illegitimate child or perhaps both.  The sight before her steals her breath.   
    
Padmé turns and looks at Leia.  The cruel, self-satisfied smile on her daughter's lips wounds Padmé to the depths of her soul.   
    
"Can I help you?" Angel asks pleasantly.   
    
"We're, um,  _oh dear_ ," Mehht says.   
    
Padmé shakes her head sharply and looks at Angel.  "How long have you been here?" she asks.   
    
Angel's smile falters, her brow furrowing.  "In this room?" she asks with a smile.  "Only a few moments.  You watched me enter."   
    
Clearly, Angel isn't that bright.  "No," Padmé says gently.  "In the palace.  How long have you been held here?"   
    
"Held?" Angel asks, searching all of their faces in turn for some indication of what they want.  "I live here," she says with huge smile.    
    
"How long have you lived here?" Padmé asks.   
    
"Forever," Angel replies with the same guileless smile.  "Since Senator Farr brought me here to Lord Vader from Kamino seven years ago."   
    
***   
    
Padmé stalks down the hallway, fighting the urge to break into a run.  Luke is right behind her, keeping pace.  The others remain in Angel's suite.   
    
Padmé stops and grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes.  "We should leave," she says brusquely.  "That  _thing_  in there isn't being held against its will."   
    
"I don't think it has much of a will," Luke says quietly.   
    
It's not funny, but Padmé laughs.  No, Angel definitely does not have much of a will.  Angel doesn't have much of anything – except Padmé's voice and Padmé's body.  Or at least the body she had two decades ago.  Honestly, Padmé isn't certain what bothers her more, the fact that Angel is a living reminder of how she used to look or that Angel is completely vacant.  Actually, it's the latter.  Definitely the latter.   
    
Padmé coughs and bites down on her fist, trying to stop herself from retching.    
    
Angel's existence offends and repulses every fiber of Padmé's being.  Someone went to the trouble of making a clone of her – without her knowledge or her permission.  They modified the clone –  _modified Padmé's very DNA_  – to make her …  _docile_.  Padmé can think of no better word to describe Angel.  She's docile.  Perfectly accommodating and agreeable.    
    
Padmé thinks back to Anakin's quarters, to the fact that they were coded to accept her palm print.  Was the door coded to her or to Angel?  Her stomach roils again and this time, she can't prevent herself from vomiting.  The thought of Anakin with that  _thing,_  of him using it to -   She can't finish the thought.  She's dry heaving now.   
    
Padmé stumbles to the wall and slides down it, crumpling to the floor, sobbing.  It is not because of Anakin that she cries, however.  It is because of Leia.  It's crushing, of course, to find out that Anakin has been keeping Angel, she supposes, like a kind of pet.  Angel could never be a true companion.  But what truly wounds Padmé is that Leia delivered this information maliciously.   _Her daughter_  brought Padmé here because she knew that Angel's very existence would injure Padmé.    
    
"Mom?" Luke says gently, afraid to approach.   
    
"I'm okay," Padmé says, wiping at her tears.  "I'm okay."   
    
***   
    
Padmé can hear Mehht raging before the doors to Angel's suite slide open.    
    
"You ungrateful, evil little brat!" Mehht yells.   
    
Leia tries to remain aloof, but Padmé immediately notices her flushed color, the way her eyes dart around the room.  Perhaps Leia is having an attack of conscience after all.  But Padmé's not certain.  She's not certain of anything at all anymore.   
    
"Mehht," Padmé says gently.   
    
Mehht turns and seeing Padmé, immediately crosses the room and envelops her in a hug.  "Oh,  _honey,"_  Mehht says softly, holding Padmé tightly.  Padmé returns the hug gratefully.   
    
Across the room, Leia watches them with glassy eyes.  As she looks at Padmé, her chin quivers, making her appear far younger than her sixteen years.  "Mom?" she says quietly.   
    
Mehht rounds on Leia, teeth bared.  "Stay away," she seethes.  "You've done enough damage for today."   
    
Leia recoils as if she had been hit and her gaze immediately narrows at Mehht.   
    
Padmé starts to reach out to Leia, but Mehht takes her hand, turning her and ushering her out to the waiting skycar.  As they retreat, Padmé glances over her shoulder at Angel who watches the events with huge, vacant eyes.  Padmé shudders, looking away.   
    
***   
    
Padmé sits on one of the couches in her penthouse living room, staring blankly at the wall.  Mehht is in the kitchen making H'Kak bean tea with Luke's help.    
    
"Apologies, milady," Mara says quietly.   
    
Padmé looks up at the young woman and smiles gently.  Padmé hadn't heard her enter the room.  She has a feeling Mara is very good at sneaking around.    
    
"I should have warned you," Mara says.  "But I didn't feel that it was my place."   
    
Padmé shakes her head.  "It wasn't your place, Mara.  It wasn't your fault."   
    
Mara shifts her weight restlessly from foot to foot.  "I didn't think Leia would actually go through with it," she says.   
    
Padmé shakes her head.  "I don't think Leia knew for certain if she would do it until it was done," she says wearily.  "And then it was too late.  She's bold.  Too bold for her own good more often than not."  She takes a deep breath and releases it.  "There is  _so_  much of Anakin in her."   
    
Mara doesn't answer.  There isn't anything to answer.  Padmé already has the impression that the conversation has become far more personal than Mara would prefer.   
    
"Mehht says you've been a great help to her," Padmé says, changing the subject.   
    
Mara blushes and looks away.  "Thank you, ma'am," she replies.   
    
Mara is rescued from having to continue the uneasy conversation by the arrival of Luke and Mehht.  Mehht sets the refreshment tray on a small table and pours Padmé a cup of tea.  Padmé also takes a slice of the bland haroun bread, nibbling on it to try and settle her still uneasy stomach.   
    
***   
    
Padmé does not feel up to venturing into the ODP offices and both Mehht and Luke seem reluctant to leave her side.  So they all remain in the penthouse all day working on various tasks.  Astor and the other new guards are far more unobtrusive than Lorian ever was.  Padmé isn't certain if that makes the separation harder or easier on Mehht.   
    
A warm sense of pride wells up inside Padmé as she watches Mehht direct a staggeringly complex control center from Padmé's dining room table.  Bail drops by during the early evening along with several of Lieutenant Piett's security officers who have apparently been co-opted by Mehht to work on her projects.  Padmé wonders what Anakin would do if he realized his Imperial military officers were being conscripted by Padmé's little moisture farmer.    
    
Thoughts of Anakin conjure a torrent of volatile emotions and Padmé reflexively forces him from her mind.  With a smile, she excuses herself from the table and makes her way to her bedroom with the intention of lying down for a while.    
    
Padmé turns the corner and is shocked to almost run into her daughter.  "Leia," she says in surprise.   
    
Leia flushes and her gaze immediately drops to the floor.  She is dressed all in black with a long zeyd-cloth cloak wrapped completely around her body so that only her small, pale face is visible.   
    
Padmé's lips purse together tightly and she laces her fingers together to keep from reaching out to her child.  "Your father didn't want you to leave the palace," Padmé says softly.   
    
Leia shrugs and doesn't meet her gaze.   
    
"Come with me," Padmé says, walking into her bedroom.  She waits until Leia enters and then shuts the door.  Taking a seat on the end of her bed, Padmé pats the mattress next to her expectantly.  Dutifully, Leia takes a seat but still won't look at her mother.  She shifts her weight uncomfortably.   
    
"It's my fault," Padmé says.   
    
Leia immediately looks at her mother, her brow furrowed.   
    
"I stayed away far too long," Padmé says.  "I let you and Luke both play me and your father against each other because I was too scared to face the life I left."   
    
Leia listens in silence.   
    
"You are too young to have all the responsibility, Leia," Padmé says.  "It isn't fair to you."   
    
Leia takes a breath and opens her mouth to reply, but Padmé cuts across her.  "I'm sure you don't see it that way," Padmé says with a wry, humorless smile.  "I'm sure you enjoy the responsibility and I'm sure you're good at it.  But the truth is, you're still very young and despite how painfully bright you are, sometimes you can't see the whole situation."   
    
Frowning, Leia looks insulted.   
    
"I know why you took me to see Angel today," Padmé says plainly.   
    
Leia flushes again, looking meek and guilty.   
    
Reaching out, Padmé places a hand on Leia's leg.  "I know it can't be easy for you to deal with the way your life has changed since I returned to Coruscant.  I know that you aren't accustomed to having to face your father and I as a united front."  Padmé takes a deep breath.  "I know you took me to see Angel because you want to drive your father and I apart so things will go back to normal."   
    
Leia opens her mouth, searching for words.  "I don't want you and dad to  _not_  be together," Leia says, obviously conflicted.    
    
Padmé smiles sadly at her daughter.  "Leia," she says.  "I know how close you are to your father.  I know how important it is that he depend on you."   
    
Leia nods.   
    
"But you have to know," Padmé continues, "that he won't be happy that you took me to see Angel."   
    
Leia looks away and Padmé gets the distinct impression that this fact has occurred to Leia – but that it occurred to her  _after_  she the damage was already done.  Maybe this is the curse of the Skywalkers, to forever leap before they look.   
    
Despite how wounded Padmé is, both by Leia and by Anakin, she still worries how the day's events will affect Leia and Anakin's relationship.  Luke found out the hard way how badly his father reacts to perceived betrayal.  Padmé prays that Anakin will be more lenient on Leia.   But she knows Anakin well.  She knows how like him it will be to blame other people for his own faults.  Regardless, Padmé will hate to see Leia blindsided by her father's reaction.    
    
Defiantly, Leia pushes herself off the bed, turning to face Padmé with an insolent expression.  "Daddy knows," Leia says firmly.  "He knows that I would never betray him.  He knows that I'm the one he can count on."   
    
Padmé sighs.  Much like her father, Leia chooses to bury her fear behind denial.  Padmé decides that silence is the better part of valor.  Leia is not ready to hear the truth right now.  She's still young.  Padmé prays there is still time for her to mature, to learn from her mistakes – and the mistakes of her father.   
    
Padmé rises and places a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder.  "Leia, you need to return to the palace," she says.   
    
Leia's expression is a volatile mixture of emotions that Padmé can't read.  She has the sensation that Leia wants to reach out to her, to tell her something, but that she can't.   
    
"Leia?" Padmé says gently.   
    
There is one teetering moment where Padmé thinks Leia will let her in, but it's gone in a blink.  Insolently, Leia pulls away and stalks from the room without a word.   
    
***   
    
Nap forgotten, Padmé returns to the dining room.   Bail and the Imperial officers are gone, leaving just Luke, Mara and Mehht.  Astor lurks in the shadows.    
    
Padmé picks up a datapad that Taly had couriered over for her.  She scans through his findings.  He discovered a half-dozen more systems involved in the money transfers.  Most of them are tied to Senate offices but the report does not name names.  Taly wants to be certain of the involved parties before he makes any accusations.  At the end of the report, Taly has included everything he pulled from the Imperial databases and starcharts on the planet Byss.   
    
Mehht rises to stand, stretching.  "My back is killing me," she says.  "I'm going to go soak in the bathtub for a while."   
    
Padmé nods, smiling at her friend before she turns back to the datapad.  Byss is apparently located in the Deep Core.  Padmé frowns, looking at the datapad.  Deep Core?  That's where Captain Solo said he was headed before discovering Leia.  Padmé's blood turns to ice water.  How is Leia wrapped up in this scheme of Korsa Dae and Orn Free Taa?   
    
Padmé doesn't have time to finish the thought as Mehht's scream pierces the air.    
    
Padmé is already running into Mehht's bedroom before she becomes aware of her actions.  Despite Padmé's quick reaction time, Luke, Mara and Astor all arrive before her.   
    
"Help me," Mehht pleads.   
    
Padmé pushes Luke aside and is horrified by the sight in front of her.  Mehht is crouched on the bed, cradling Lorian's supine form.  His head is lolled to the side and his shirt is soaked with wet, crimson bloodstains. 


	12. Chapter 12

Padmé has absolutely no idea how long she’s been sitting in this uncomfortable chair in this uncomfortable waiting room at the Imperial Medcenter.  She is numb, inside and out.  The cloying, sickly sweet smell of bacta permeates the air.    
  
It is with great relief that she watches Anakin walk across the cavernous room toward her.  “You look like I feel,” she says, taking in his disheveled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes.  
  
“I don’t know,” he says, critically looking her over, “I caught a few hours sleep on the way back from Csilla.  When was the last time you slept?”  
  
Padmé blinks up at him.  “I have no idea,” she says honestly.  
  
Anakin crouches down in front of her, grasping her hands in his own.  He looks pointedly at Astor.    
  
“We’ve been here for nine hours, My Lord,” Astor says.  “As far as I know, she hasn’t slept since the night before last.”  
  
Anakin frowns, reaching up to brush a stray hair out of Padmé’s eyes.    
  
“The medical staff came and got Mehht,” she whispers, unable to prevent the quivering of her bottom lip.  “I don’t know what’s going on.  The doctors said Lorian would need to be placed in a bacta tank -  _if_  he survived the surgery.  They didn’t know if the damage to his liver was repairable.”  
  
Anakin rises to his feet.  “Wait here,” he says.  
  
She watches him disappear through the archway.  She glances around the room.  Luke and Astor are all that’s left of the group that originally accompanied Lorian to the Medcenter.  There are other people in the waiting room, small groups of individuals huddled together in silence.  Padmé wonders if Lorian's family has been notified.  She has no idea what the protocol is on Imperial agents grievously wounded in the line of duty.    
  
Anakin returns, striding purposefully across the room.  “Mehht will be out in a few minutes,” he says to Luke and Astor.  “Escort her home and then get some sleep.”  
  
He pulls Padmé to her feet but she shakes her head, trying to pull free of his grasp.  “I can’t leave,” she says.  
  
“Yes you can,” he counters, easily ushering her toward the exit despite her protests.  “Lorian is stable.  The doctors are going to send Mehht home shortly.”  
  
“I need to be here for her,” Padmé protests again.  
  
“She understands,” Anakin replies.  “I already spoke with her.”  
  
Padmé shudders at the thought of Anakin’s conversation with Mehht, but she is far too exhausted to protest any longer.  She allows him to escort her to the shuttle and doesn’t complain as he sits next to her, urging her to rest her head on his shoulder.  
  
She takes comfort in the feel of his shoulder against her cheek, the warmth of his arm around her back.  They will definitely have words, but not now.  Right now, their personal conflicts can wait.  Right now, she cannot be alone with this aching void in her heart.    
  
Padmé needs someone to help bear the burden.  Mehht, who was her support for so many years, is now consumed with worry for Lorian.  Padmé will not involve Luke, her constant touchstone, in this issue.  Anakin alone has as much vested in these events as Padmé.  
  
Slowly, Padmé pushes herself into a sitting position, turning to look at Anakin.    
  
“What?” he says, his voice laden with concern.  
  
Tears stream down Padmé’s cheeks but she doesn’t sob.  “Leia,” she says softly.  
  
“What about Leia?” Anakin asks, color draining from his face.  
  
Padmé shakes her head.  “Leia did this,” she whispers, finally giving voice to the truth she has known since finding Lorian last night.  “Leia and Mehht had an argument, an awful argument.  I know Leia did that to Lorian.  Then she left him for Mehht to find.  She - ”  Padmé can no longer form these horrible words.  She sobs softly.  
  
Anakin reaches out and once again tucks Padmé against his side.    
  
“Ani,” she pleads in a whisper.  
  
“We’ll discuss it,” he says.  “But not now.  Lorian is stable.  Mehht is safe.  It will wait a few hours.”  
  
Padmé doses off, not coming fully awake as Anakin half walks, half carries her from the shuttle to her own bedroom.  He pulls the heavy curtains, blocking out the bright morning sunlight and climbs onto the bed with her, both of them fully dressed.  Padmé curls easily into his body and oblivion claims her in an instant.  
  
***  
  
Anakin is gone when she wakes, but the rumpled covers that bear the imprint of his body are still warm.  Padmé doesn’t remember the last time she felt this wretched.  A quick glance at the chrono shows that they slept for a little over five hours.  Her eyes are scratchy and her stomach is sour.  Her very heart and soul ache.  
  
Pushing herself out of bed, Padmé crosses the room to the window and pulls back the heavy curtains, flooding the room with bright afternoon light.  She blinks against the harsh glare.  She glances down at herself.  The front of her gown is stained with Lorian’s blood.  Last night she managed to scrub her hands clean, but there was nothing that could be done for the gown.  
  
With a heavy sigh, Padmé decides that perhaps a shower will help her feel more human.  The once beautiful gown is unsalvageable and she tosses it into the recycler.    
  
She stays in the shower for a very long time, allowing the steaming hot water to pour over her aching body.  Padmé finally turns off the shower and reaches for her towel.  It’s not there.    
  
Brushing her wet hair back from her face, she pokes her head out of the shower – and finds Anakin perched on the sink holding her towel.  She extends one hand expectantly, using the other to wrap the shower curtain around her body.  His only reply is a predatory grin.    
  
“ _I do not believe you_ ,” Padmé says in disgust, throwing back the shower curtain and stalking nude and dripping wet across the room to snatch the towel from his hand.  “Our daughter tried to murder someone and you’re playing games with me.”  
  
Anakin frowns and appears chastised – though not chastised enough to stop himself from raking his eyes over Padmé's glistening flesh.  “Leia didn’t try to kill Lorian,” he says absently.  
  
Padmé wraps the towel around her body, tucking the end over on itself securely.  “I beg your pardon,” she counters.    
  
Without her naked body as a distraction, Anakin immediately looks more downtrodden and surly.  Padmé wonders how he would have handled Leia's attack on Lorian in her absence.  She suspects that he would ignore it entirely if possible.  She wonders how much he has ignored up to this point.  
  
“If Leia had tried to kill Lorian, she would have succeeded,” Anakin says plainly.  “His wounds weren’t mortal.  She left him where she knew he would be found and quickly given medical attention.”  
  
Padmé stares at her husband, aghast.  The fact that he can defend Leia’s action is absolutely unconscionable to her.  “Get out,” she snaps.    
  
She turns her back on him, relieved when she hears the ‘fresher door hiss shut.  
  
***  
  
When Padmé emerges from her bedroom, she finds Anakin conferring with Astor and one of the other guards.  She is taken back for a moment, to the precious slivers of time they stole together during the Clone Wars.  He has that same look about him, overly-tired, stubble darkening his jaw, rumpled clothes. Despite being almost two decades older, he still seems to hold up well on little sleep.  He probably has a lot of practice.  Padmé wonders how he manages to sleep at all with his myriad sins weighing on his conscience.  
  
As she approaches, Anakin dismisses the guards and turns to face her.  "I contacted Leia," he says.  
  
Padmé watches him carefully.  "And?"  
  
"She isn't to leave her quarters until I speak with her," he says.  
  
Padmé shakes her head and stalks through the apartment to the veranda, away from Astor's prying eyes and ears.  She never dreamed she would long for the days when Lorian was her constant shadow.  Anakin follows and when he steps onto the veranda, she turns to him.    
  
"Do you have any intention of disciplining Leia at all?" Padmé demands.  
  
Anakin crosses his arms over his chest, regarding his wife with an unreadable expression.  "You’re being overly sentimental,” he says dryly.  “Lorian is my best assassin.  He is not an innocent victim."  
  
"I don’t care about Lorian's innocence or guilt!" Padmé yells.  "I'm not Lorian's mother.  His soul is his own business.  I’m worried about my daughter."    
  
Anakin looks away, walking to one of the curved couches and taking a seat, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.  
  
Padmé knows that it is himself he is trying to delude – not her – in regards to Leia’s actions.  Anakin doesn’t want to believe it anymore than Padmé does.  But Anakin didn’t see Leia last night.  He didn’t see how distracted, insolent – and in retrospect,  _guilty_  - she was.  He didn’t see Lorian’s bloody body or Mehht’s anguish.  
  
She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.  "When you spoke with Leia, did she tell you why she and Mehht argued?" Padmé asks, moving to stand in front of Anakin.  
  
Anakin looks up at her.  "No," he says, shaking his head.  He looks weary, even more so than he did only a few minutes ago.  "I didn't ask."  
  
"Leia took us to see Angel," Padmé says, watching him carefully for a reaction, bracing herself.  
  
And as if to illustrate the fact that Anakin will forever fail to be predictable, he does not rage.  He does not offer hasty explanations or try to bend the truth to suit his needs.  He just sits there.    
  
And then, he shrugs.    
  
"What would you have me do with your clone?" he asks dispassionately.  "I won't destroy her like a malfunctioning droid.  I can't turn her loose in the galaxy; she's too much of a security risk."  
  
He rises to stand, pacing the veranda.  “Zemda Farr presented her to me as a gift years ago,” Anakin says with a humorless smile.  “He was trying to curry my favor.  He wanted the  _Executor_  contract to go to the shipyards at Duro.”  
  
“The  _Executor_  was built at Fondor,” Padmé counters sharply.  
  
Anakin’s lips curl into a smile of satisfaction, obviously pleased with his wife’s knowledge.  “Yes,” he replies.  “And Senator Farr … met with an unfortunate accident.”  
  
Padmé flinches.  With Anakin as a role model it is no wonder that Leia attacked Lorian.  
  
"Angel likes puzzles," Anakin continues with another shrug.  "I make sure she has puzzles.  I make sure she is treated well.  I also make certain that no one ever learns of her existence."  His smile turns hard, humorless.  "Obviously I need to work on that last one."  
  
Padmé is at a loss for words.  She was mentally prepared to try and counter his rage, to try and protect Anakin’s relationship with Leia.  But Anakin isn’t angry.  He seems to find this entire exchange  _inconvenient_.  Her own rage, which she set aside in the interest of protecting Leia bubbles to the fore.    
  
"You're not a victim of circumstance in this," she snaps.  "You _named_  her.  Angel was what you called me.  It was something special between  _us_.  Zemda Farr may have commissioned her …  _creation_ , but he couldn’t possibly have known that.  You chose to give that thing  _my_  name."  
  
His cool, collected façade cracks a bit and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye.  “In retrospect, that was a regrettable decision."  
  
She snaps.  Despite his casual demeanor, Anakin never meant for her to find out about Angel.  Padmé will not stand here and listen to his pitiful explanations another second.  She grabs a nearby vase and lobs it at his head.  
  
He makes a startled noise and ducks, but to both their surprises, the vase clips him in the shoulder.  " _What are you doing_?" he demands, rubbing his shoulder, more shocked than pained.  
  
“It’s no wonder that my child is morally bankrupt!”  
  
He scoffs.  “I’m morally bankrupt for  _not_  destroying your clone?” he demands.  
  
She glares one last time and then turns on her heel and stalks back inside the apartment.  She nearly runs over Mehht.  
  
Mehht reaches out to steady Padmé after the near collision and Padmé immediately envelops her in a hug.  They retreat to Mehht's bedroom.  Padmé is glad for the excuse to avoid Anakin.    
  
Mehht relays the doctors' findings.  Lorian is expected to make a full recovery, but he needs to spend the next day in a bacta tank.  No one is thrilled about that, least of all Lorian, who complained extensively to Mehht prior to being submerged.  
  
"Does Lorian remember the attack?" Padmé asks carefully.  Anakin is the only person to whom she voiced her opinion on Leia's involvement.  Padmé doesn't know how much Mehht might suspect.  
  
Shaking her head, Mehht says, "He doesn't remember anything."  
  
Padmé nods, inwardly wondering if Lorian truly doesn't remember, or if he's attempting to spare Mehht's feelings.  
  
***  
  
Padmé's heeled sandals echo loudly on the cheaply tiled duracrete floor.  The smell of bacta seems to cling to her very skin and Padmé suspects she'll have to recycle this gown.  While she has never cared for the scent of bacta, the last day has made it particularly revolting.  
  
It is late evening and the hallway is deserted, save Typho who stands guard outside the bacta treatment room.  Despite Anakin's concern over Typho's ever increasing age, he seems as reliable as ever, impervious to the long hours he keeps.  Padmé wonders if Leia deigned to be escorted or if Anakin gave her no choice in the matter.  Either way, Padmé approves.  Typho, despite his age, is far more adept at keeping track of Leia than anyone – Leia's parents included.  Padmé still doesn't know how he managed to locate Leia on Captain Solo's ship.  
  
The lights in the treatment room are dimmed to mimic the natural light – or lack thereof - outside.  The only illumination comes from low intensity lights inside the bacta tank itself, casting a reddish glow over both the treatment room and the observation room.  Only medical droids are allowed inside the treatment room, but it is entirely visible.   The wall separating the treatment room from the observation room is made of transparisteel.  
  
Leia stands in the observation room, silently watching Lorian float in the healing synthetic chemicals.  Thanks to Typho, Padmé knows Leia has been here for hours, though she is uncertain why her daughter is keeping this vigil.  She prays that Leia is not here to gloat or bask in her dark deeds.  
  
"Lorian should be released tomorrow," Padmé says.  
  
Leia turns to face her mother.  Her face is too pale and her cheeks seem unnaturally hollow.  It doesn't appear that Leia has slept since Padmé last saw her.  
  
Leia looks from Padmé back to Lorian and nods.  "Dad told me," she says quietly.  
  
Padmé wonders what else Anakin said to their daughter.  She hasn't spoken with him since the incident on the veranda several hours earlier.  
  
Padmé takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, squaring her shoulders.  "Did you do this, Leia?" she asks.  
  
Leia turns to face her mother, her chin jutting out defiantly despite her frown and sad eyes.  "Yes," she says.  
  
Padmé cannot help but be reminded of that day in the garage of the Lars farmstead when Anakin confessed his slaughter of the entire Tusken camp.   _Not just the men, but the women and the children too_.  It was as if he was daring her to condemn him.  Padmé senses the same intention from Leia.    
  
That day, so many years ago, Padmé comforted and consoled Anakin.  She freely offered him every bit of acceptance she possessed.  
  
… and he went on to murder thousands, to rule the galaxy with an iron fist.  
  
“This behavior is not acceptable, Leia," Padmé says quietly.  
  
Leia does not move, but something shifts in her eyes.  "I know," she says and this time she sounds almost smug.  Without a word, she turns to watch Lorian and ignores her mother until Padmé leaves.  
  
***  
  
Luke is waiting at Padmé’s apartment when she returns.  She puts on a brave smile for him, hoping that he will not sense how deeply upset she is.  
  
Her charade is no use, of course.  Luke frowns at her.  “Leia's behavior is escalating,” he says softly, rising to his feet.  Next to him on the living room couch is a travel bag.  
  
“It definitely appears so,” Padmé responds wearily.  
  
Luke motions for her to sit and she takes the suggestion gladly.  “You’re leaving again?” she asks, nodding toward the bag.  
  
“I have to see Ben,” Luke replies softly.  
  
Grimacing, Padmé hides her face in her hands for a moment before returning her gaze to her son.  “Luke,” she says without trying to dissuade him, “you know that your father won’t take this well.”  
  
Luke looks at her, his features open and honest.  “I have to take Ben somewhere safe,” Luke says.  “The longer I leave him there, the more likely Father's patience will run out and he will order Ben's execution.”  
  
Padmé wishes she could argue, but she can’t.  Luke is absolutely right.  She sighs, tears welling in her eyes.  She knows, as does Luke, that this may very well be the final transgression as far as Anakin is concerned.  Anakin goes to absurd lengths to defend Leia, to deny just how dangerous she is.  Luke, however, the even tempered and dependable twin is afforded no such consideration from his father.  
  
Padmé knows that Luke does not court his father’s disapproval.  Their personal friction is merely a side effect of the fact that their goals are often at odds with one another.  Padmé knows that regardless of how it appears on the surface, Anakin and Luke do care for each other deeply.  She also knows that care in no way means they can exist together peacefully.  
  
“How will you get there?” she asks.  “I thought your ship was still impounded.”  
  
“It is,” Luke says.  “Mara has a ship.  She’s going to take me.”  
  
Unable to prevent her shock, Padmé’s gaze snaps to him.  It is not lost on Luke and he watches his mother intently.  “Do you think that’s wise?” Padmé asks, trying to recover.  “You will be putting Mara in harm’s way.”  
  
“I know,” Luke replies.  “I’ve explained the situation to her.  She knows the odds.  She is insistent on helping.”  
  
There is a beautiful synchronicity to it and Padmé can’t stop herself from smiling a sad smile.   A Skywalker and a Kenobi teaming up for a mission.  She never dreamed she would see that again.  
  
She wonders for a moment if she is losing her mind.  She's sending one of her children off to the far reaches of the galaxy at the same time that she's trying to keep the other confined to her room.  It's not fair and she knows that.  However, the bottom line is that she trusts Luke – and Mara – in ways that she simply cannot trust Leia right now.  
  
She rises to stand and presses a kiss to Luke’s cheek.  “May the Force be with you,” she says quietly.  There are so many more things she wants to say, but she knows they would only embarrass him so she holds her tongue and allows her son to be a man.  
  
He takes her hand, squeezing it once.  “May the Force be with you,” he replies.  
  
***  
  
Anakin looks up from the schematics he is reviewing.  "I didn't expect to see you," he says, his face betraying no emotion.  It has been two days since their argument on the veranda and they have not communicated.  Padmé finds his silence suspicious.  Through Typho, she learned that Anakin did have some very pointed words with Leia the previous day.   Padmé is somewhat shocked Anakin didn’t try and use that information to get back in her good graces.  Of course,  he still has time to try that tact.  
  
"Lorian was released from the medcenter," Padmé says.  Lorian has mostly recovered from his wounds.  He is currently in Padmé's apartment, being cared for by Mehht.  Padmé suspect that Lorian is taking advantage of the situation, but she hasn’t complained considering her child was the one responsible for his injuries.  
  
Anakin turns off the schematic display and swivels in his chair to face his wife.  "Yes, I know," he replies coolly.  
  
Padmé stands there waiting for Anakin to say something,  _anything_  of import in regards to their daughter and her actions.  He doesn't.  
  
"I don't know why I bother," Padmé counters, turning on her heel and leaving his office.  She stalks through the Imperial war room and out into the Imperial Palace's grand hallway.  
  
"Wait," he says, grasping her upper arm and ushering her to a stop.  It is a request rather than an order which is the only reason she complies.  He could drag her to a stop to be certain, but had his tone been the tiniest bit less contrite than it was, she would have forced him to do just that.  
  
She turns to face him.  “Did you find out why Leia was trying to hitch a ride into the Deep Core?”  She isn’t ignoring the issue of Lorian, but despite how discouraging she finds it, Leia’s attack on Lorian is no longer the most pressing issue.    
  
Anakin looks at her with another unreadable expression.  He waves off Astor who dutifully retreats into the background.  Anakin then escorts her down a smaller corridor that leads to the busy landing platform where her shuttle is docked.  The two supplemental guards whose names Padmé has never bothered to learn stand sentry outside the shuttle.  The landing platform is noisy, windy and swarming with people and droids.  Yet because of that, it affords them a great deal of privacy.  
  
Padmé squints in the late afternoon light at Galactic City’s skyline while Anakin hovers closely.  “Did you?” she demands.  
  
“No,” he says, frowning tightly.  
  
Padmé sighs.  “You’re the Emperor.  Shouldn’t you have spies to keep track of your children?” she asks dryly.  
  
“In case you missed it,” he says, “Leia stabbed the best spy I have.”  
  
It is now Padmé’s turn to frown.  “I thought he was your best  _assassin_ ,” she counters in irritation.  
  
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” he replies.  
  
She watches several shuttles land.  “Taly showed me his preliminary report this afternoon,” she says.  
  
“I know,” he replies.  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Padmé looks at him.  
  
“I  _am_  the Emperor,” he says.  "Lieutenant Piett hand delivered the report."  
  
She shakes her head and looks away.  For all his assertions that he neither cared nor wanted to know about her activities, he certainly keeps close tabs.  “Do you know anything about Byss?” Padmé asks.  
  
She looks at him expectantly, but he won’t meet her gaze.  “Nothing good,” he replies.  
  
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demands.  
  
He frowns and looks at her.  “Palpatine discovered several hyperlanes into the Deep Core.  Byss was his personal retreat.”  
  
“You didn’t feel the need to tell me this?” she yells, putting several feet of space between herself and her husband.  
  
“I’m telling you now,” he counters.  “I just saw Taly’s report.  What did you want me to do?”  
  
Padmé shakes her head and looks away.  “I don’t know,” she says honestly.  She snaps her gaze back to him and she steps closer.  “Do you think this has something to do with Palpatine?” she asks in a low voice, chilled to her core at the very idea.  
  
Anakin looks at her and from the intensity of his expression, she knows she is not going to like his answer.  “Palpatine knew how to cheat death,” he says flatly.  “You and the twins are proof enough of that.”  
  
“No,” Padmé whispers, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.  “No.  Not my baby.”  
  
He reaches out for her and she dances back out of his range.  She turns, bolting for the shuttle.  It isn't Anakin's fault, at least not directly.  He would never willingly place his children in Palpatine's grasp.  Point of fact, he murdered the Emperor to prevent such a thing.  But she doesn’t care about Anakin's intentions right now.  He chose to become a Sith Lord and crown himself Emperor.  He chose to present this role model for his children.  Whether he intended it or not, he is guilty and she cannot be near him.  Right now, she needs to put as much distance between herself and her husband as possible.  
  
Anakin lets her take several step before he follows.  “Padmé,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the din.  
  
Blindly, she makes her way to the shuttle, threading through people, cargo and droids.  She doesn’t want to talk to him now.  She can’t.  She can’t face the idea that her daughter may be retracing all of her father’s footsteps.  
  
The guards see her coming and they open the shuttle doors.  One of them steps inside to pilot.  Padmé is almost to the shuttle, but Anakin grabs her shoulder, angrily pulling her backwards.  
  
“Dammit, Padmé!” he snaps.  
  
She doesn’t hear the explosion, but she definitely feels it.  She is slammed forcefully into Anakin and they are both thrown away from the fiery remains of the shuttle.  
  
She doesn’t know how long she lies there.  She is staring up into the shimmering sky.  She blinks, coughing violently and her vision falls on Anakin.  He is crouched over her, mouthing her name over and over, but she doesn’t hear a sound.  
  
There is a deep cut across his left cheek and soot and ash cover him.  She reaches up and gently touches the trail of blood on his check.  
  
And then everything fades to black.


	13. Chapter 13

_“Mama!” Leia runs, jumping and wrapping her small legs around her mother’s body, holding her tight._    
   
 _Padmé wraps her arms around her child, holding her close as she crumples to her knees on the hard, unforgiving ground.  The winds are fierce today and the sand is more than enough to chase any sane person inside, but Padmé doesn’t move.  She simply holds her child.  “What’s wrong, baby?” she asks gently._    
   
 _Leia is trembling, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder.  Several feet away, Luke hangs back, close to Typho.  The young boy’s eyes seem haunted. In the distance, the ship is clearly visible, the gangplank still extended.  Typho probably had to chase the twins toward the house and didn't have time to secure the ship._    
   
 _“Mama,” Leia whispers again._    
   
 _This is her fault.  Padmé never should have sent the twins to Anakin, even for a visit.  They’re only five years old.  They’re still babies.  She buries her nose in Leia’s hair.  Breathing deeply, she cradles Leia’s trembling body closer.  She knows this scent intimately.  It’s imprinted on her very soul._    
   
Padmé opens her eyes, blinking away the dream-memory.  The room is dimly lit, but she can clearly make out the dark head resting against her shoulder.  The smell of Leia’s hair is unmistakable.  She lifts her hand, wincing at the pain the movement causes.  But the pain doesn’t stop her from running her palm over her baby’s hair.   
    
Leia blinks awake, sitting up and pushing herself back in the chair that she pulled close to Padmé’s bed.  “Mom?” she asks sleepily.   
    
The smell of bacta and the beeping monitors clearly identify this place as the Imperial Medcenter.  The room is nicer and more private than the one afforded Lorian days earlier, but regardless of how it’s dressed, it’s still a hospital room.   
    
Padmé looks up to see Anakin seated in a chair on the far side of the room.  He’s leaning back, watching her with a guarded expression.  There is a fresh cut along his left cheek.  His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.    
    
“How long have you been here?” Padmé asks.   
    
Anakin pushes himself out of the chair and walks to stand at Padmé’s bedside.  “A couple of hours,” he says.  “How do you feel?”   
    
“Like I’ve been blown up,” Padmé says.  She squints up at Anakin.  “Did I get blown up?”   
    
He shrugs.  “A little.”   
    
“ _Oh,_ ” Padmé says, oddly numbed by the revelation.   
    
“You were knocked unconscious,” Anakin continues.  “The doctors want to keep you overnight for observation.”   
    
Padmé is not glad to hear the news, but honestly, she doesn't feel well enough to get out of the hospital bed.  She looks down at herself.  Her lovely gown is gone, replaced by an unflattering and rather scratchy hospital gown.   
    
"Mehht was supposed to send over clothes for you," Anakin says.  "Your dress was unsalvageable."   
    
Leia rises to stand.  "I'll go see if the clothes have been delivered."   
    
Both Padmé and Anakin watch Leia leave the room.  With a tired groan, Anakin sinks into the chair Leia vacated.  "She hides it," he says, "but she was terrified when you were injured."   
    
Padmé looks at her husband.  She reaches out, running her fingertips lightly over the cut on his cheek.  He wraps his hand around hers and pulls it flush against his face.  He turns into it, pressing a kiss to her palm.  His eyes are full of emotions he will not voice.   
    
"How do you really feel?" he asks pointedly.   
    
She swivels her head back and forth experimentally, grimacing.  "I think I'm okay," she says.  "My head is killing me and my ears are ringing."   
    
He nods.  "The doctors said that would be expected," he says.  "You needed to rest.  You've only been asleep for hours."   
    
"What happened?" Padmé asks, releasing his hand to pull the covers up over her less than adequate gown.  She finds the room uncomfortably cool.   
    
"There was a bomb in the shuttle," he says tightly.  "Someone was trying to get rid of you."   
    
"Was anyone hurt?" Padmé asks quickly.   
    
"Three people were killed.  Your two guards and a bystander.  There were a dozen or so injuries, you included."   
    
Padmé reaches up again and touches his wounded cheek.  "Are you included?" she asks.   
    
"No," he says, grasping her fingertips with his own.  He brings her hand to his mouth again and presses his lips to the pads of her fingers.  "I thought I lost you today," he whispers.  Padmé can feel his lips move against her fingertips.   
    
Reluctantly, she pulls her hand away and twines it through the covers.  "Who did this?" she asks.   
    
He rubs his hand roughly over his face.  "We think at least one of your guards was involved."   
    
" _We_?"   
    
"Lorian and Piett are making inquiries while I keep an eye on you."   
    
"And what do you know so far?"   
    
"That Mehht Whitesun is an enormous pain in the ass.  Lorian had to pick her up and physically remove her from the room."  Anakin chuckles softly.  "She seems to think I intend to ravage you while you're unconscious on a hospital bed."   
    
"She's a smart girl," Padmé replies with a wry grin that quickly fades.  She knows Anakin is trying to distract her.  "Who were the guards working for?" she insists.   
    
His jaw muscles tighten.  Clearly, he does not want to discuss this.    
    
Which is a pity, because she does.   
    
" _Anakin_ ," she prompts.   
    
"Korto," he says darkly.  There is a menace in the way he forms the words, a betrayal that suggests Korto is not long for this world.   
    
Padmé's mouth falls open.  She abhors everything about Korto but to think he would make an attempt on her life…  She is quite shocked he had the nerve.  "Was he working alone?" she asks.   
    
"I don’t know," Anakin says.  "But I  _will_  find out.  He was transferred to a military detention center.  Lorian is working on him."   
    
Padmé doesn't know what that means and she will not ask.  She knows that Lorian won't kill Korto, only because it's quite obvious that Anakin intends to do that himself.    
    
She doubts it is a good sign that she doesn’t even care.   
    
Leia returns with the clothes Mehht delivered, but Padmé finds she doesn't have the energy to change.  Anakin and Leia find her another blanket to ward off the cold and encourage her to sleep.  Leia decides to leave, claiming she intends to return to the Palace.  Anakin makes himself as comfortable as he can in the chair at her bedside.   
    
Despite the thoughts swarming in her mind, Padmé finds sleep pulling at her.  Resting her head in the pillow, she watches Anakin.  His face is the last thing she sees before fading into unconsciousness.   
    
***   
    
His thrashing wakes her and she rolls over, watching him in the dim light.  His forehead is beaded with sweat, his head restlessly moving from side to side.  He murmurs in his sleep and all at once, jerks awake, sitting up in the chair.   
    
His breathing erratic.  He drags a hand through his hair and looks at her.  He holds her gaze for a moment and then leans forward, elbows braced above his knees as he cradles his head in his hands.    
    
Padmé props herself up on one arm, pulling the covers tightly around her body.  “When did the nightmares start?”   
    
He turns his head to the door and she watches him in profile.  He won't look at her.  "They're not nightmares.  They’re visions,” he says, his voice scratchy from sleep.   
    
There is something in his tone, something dark and distant that unsettles her.  “Okay,” she says gently.  “When did your visions start again?”   
    
He laughs, a hollow sound.  “My visions never leave me,” he replies darkly.   
    
She pushes herself up in bed, wrapping the blankets around her shoulders and reaches out, touching his arm.  “Ani,” she says softly, her voice rife with concern.   
    
He looks at her.  She senses he is not pleased with the name she used.  She shivers for a moment, but shrugs it away quickly.  She has always known about Anakin’s duality, the war between his darker nature and the tender, caring man she married.  But the divide between the two is rarely so evident.  She swallows thickly and asks, “You have these …  _visions_  often?”   
    
He nods.  “Most nights …  When I manage to sleep.”   
    
Though she is fairly certain she doesn’t want to hear the answer, she asks, “What did your visions show you tonight?”   
    
He is silent for a long moment and then rises to his feet, doing his best to pace in the confined space.  “The same thing they always show me," he says without look at her.  "The consequences of letting down my guard.”   
    
“Somehow I doubt they’re that esoteric,” she says carefully.  “You were very agitated in your sleep.”   
    
“Your death,” he says flatly, thrusting the words at her.  “The children’s deaths.”  He stares at the wall and she can see his jaw muscles flexing.  “The same thing they have shown me every night for the last sixteen years.”   
    
She is dumbstruck.  She knows how turbulent these visions are, how profoundly they affect him.  She cannot believe they have continued unabated for so long.  “Anakin,” she says softly, “they’re not real.  I’m not dead.  The children aren’t dead.”   
    
“Because I heed the portents of the visions,” he whispers.  “My powers, the powers Palpatine initiated me into – those are the only things keeping the visions from becoming reality.  They’re the only things keeping you and the children safe.”   
    
Unable to answer, Padmé stares at her husband.  It is true enough that she and the children are alive.  But safe?  How can he equate fourteen years of estrangement with safety?  Leia’s forays into the Deep Core certainly aren’t safe.  The same could probably be said for Luke’s involvement with Obi-Wan.  Anakin’s intentions are understandable, possibly even admirable.  But she wonders to what degree he is deluding himself.  He is obviously trying to keep his visions from becoming a reality, but at what cost?   
    
“You have always been enough for me just as you are,” she says, trying to soothe this dark, insatiable need inside him.   
    
He turns, regarding her.  Slowly, he crosses the room to her and reaches out and running his fingers lightly along her jaw.  It should be a tender gesture, but it’s not.  There is something in the gesture – something in his  _intention_  – that is unmistakably predatory.  There is no doubt this is Lord Vader, not Anakin Skywalker, with whom she is dealing.   
    
“Is that true,  _Senator?_ ” he asks, leaning even closer.  “Am I enough?”  He meets her gaze from scant inches away.  His lips curve into that cruel, predatory smile she loathes.  “I was beginning to wonder.  You stayed away  _so_  long.”  He reaches down, his fingers playing lightly along the flesh of her chest exposed by the ill fitting hospital gown.    
    
Reflexively, she leans away from him, pulling the sheet up under her chin.  He chuckles cruelly.   
    
She doesn’t flinch, but she does look away.  She knows this is a pointed attack.  Lord Vader wants - no  _needs -_  to keep her at a distance.  This is the same tactic he used after the Hapan dinner, the same oh-so-effective insults.  Lord Vader needs to restore the status quo, the animosity and detachment.  Padmé doesn’t know why this is so.  Perhaps he can’t commit the atrocities necessary to maintain his dark powers if she is looking over his shoulder.  Perhaps he doesn't believe he can love her and protect her at the same time.   
    
All she knows is that she cannot,  _will not,_ let him win this time.  She will not let him push her away.   
    
She reaches for his hand and he starts, clearly shocked she initiated physical contact.  She looks up at him.  "I'm cold, Ani," she says softly, shivering.   
    
Her words and actions have the desired effect.  They remind him she is in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown.  They remind him she is injured.    
    
The leering smile vanishes and in the space of a heartbeat, Lord Vader is gone and Anakin has returned.  Wordlessly, he sits next to her on the bed and pulls her close.  She curls into the warmth of his body.  She tugs at him and he complies, stretching out on the bed next to her.  As she drifts off to sleep, she feels his lips against her forehead.   
  


	14. Chapter 14

"I'm leaving," she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares at the doctor.  Padmé understood the need to stay overnight, but she is quickly tiring of this hospital room.  She wants to go home.   
    
The doctor shoots a pleading gaze at the Emperor.   
    
Anakin shrugs.  "I'm not going to stop her," he says.  Darkly, he adds, "And I wouldn’t recommend you have anyone else try."   
    
The doctor sighs in resignation.  "Fine," he snips, "but you need rest."   
    
Padmé nods in agreement, but heads for the door.  If she has to spend another second smelling bacta she may lose her mind.   
    
***   
    
Padmé sighs blissfully as the water washes over her body.  She scrubs her hair three separate times, trying to rid her tresses of the inescapable stench of bacta.    
    
She thought her long years on Tatooine made the concept of home forever elusive.  However, her absolute gratitude upon returning to her own apartment is testament to the contrary.  She has never been so happy to be home.   
    
Anakin is still here, waiting in her bedroom, guarding her until Lorian arrives to take his place.  Mehht, undoubtedly is anxiously anticipating the event.  As much as Padmé loves Mehht and as much as she wishes to see Mehht happy, she does not share the sentiment.  Padmé can’t remember the last time she had the luxury of turning to someone during a crisis, of truly sharing her burden and her fears with a partner.  Experience taught her to depend on no one save herself, yet she can’t bring herself to pull back from Anakin when he is finally within her reach.    
    
With a sigh, she turns off the water.  She knows there is certain danger is allowing herself to hope Anakin will see reason, to hope he can and will return to her.  But she can't stop herself.  She needs to believe it is possible otherwise all is lost.   
    
Standing in front of the mirror, Padmé runs the towel over her hair, patting it dry.  Her long chestnut locks trail over her shoulders and back in soft curls.  Wrapping the towel around her body, she stares at the 'fresher door.  She onpurposeforgot to bring her change of clothes into the 'fresher with her despite the fact that Anakin is waiting in her bedroom.  She feels rather ridiculous.  Anakin is her husband.  He fathered her children.  He saw her naked only a few days ago.    
    
But this is different.   
    
Something has undeniably changed between them.  She isn't going to let him pull away, regardless of how viciously Lord Vader fights her on that front.  Anakin –  _her_ Anakin - is there; she knows that in her heart.    
    
She has no intention of parading around in front of him to provoke a sexual response.  He obviously desires her physically and she can no longer deny that she feels the same.  However, she isn't worried he will find an implied invitation in her manner of dress – or undress.  Rather, she feels trepidation about escalating the intimacy of their relationship.  Not physical intimacy, but emotional.  Often times, such small gestures hold incredible power.    
    
If she walks into her bedroom dressed only in her towel knowing he is there … the gesture holds power.  It implies he is entitled to watch her in this manner.  It implies that she views him as more than a husband in name.  And it requires a great deal of vulnerability on her part which is incredibly difficult considering she spent the last decade and a half inuring herself to his very presence.    
    
Steeling her resolve, Padmé opens the 'fresher door and steps into her bedroom.  Anakin is there, his back to her as he stares out the window.  Realizing there is a change of clothes laid out on her bed, Padmé crosses the room.  She stares down at the clothes quizzically.   
    
"Did Mehht set these out?" she asks quietly.  It is a sand colored tunic and pants she brought from Tatooine.  While she would love nothing more than to wear the blissfully comfortable garments, they are hardly befitting the Empress.   
    
Anakin continues to stare out the window for several more moments before finally turning to meet her gaze.  "No, I did."   
    
Padmé blinks at him.   
    
He steps closer.  "I wanted you to be comfortable."    
    
His words are bland and reasonable enough, but there is something in his manner, something close to embarrassment onto which Padmé's thoughts latch.  She remembers an exchange they had shortly after her return to Coruscant where his attention seemed unaccountably fixed on her moisture farmer attire.   
    
She cocks her head to the side as she regards him.  "Do you like these clothes?" she asks quietly.   
    
He scoffs, looking away, but there is a slight blush to his skin that betrays him.   
    
" _Anakin_ ," she prompts softly.   
    
He turns back to her with a sheepish expression.  "It … reminds me of home," he says softly.   
    
Her lips curve into a smile.  "That's sweet," she replies gently.   
    
Seemingly mortified by the entire exchange, Anakin switches tactics.  He crosses the room to her and reaches out, running his fingertips over the edge of her towel.  "I prefer you in nothing at all," he says wolfishly.   
    
She gives him a wicked grin.  "Is that so?  I thought Lorian was on his way over so you could leave."   
    
His leering grin borders on lecherous.  "Lorian can wait.  I'm sure Mehht can keep him entertained."   
    
"What about Korto?"   
    
He shrugs.  "Korto can wait too.  He's not going anywhere.   _Ever_."   
    
Anakin reaches for the spot where her towel is tucked over on itself, securing it closed.  Reflexively, Padmé's hand covers his.    
    
She stands there, feeling her heart pound in her chest.  He is so close, his breath puffing against her face.  He waits and she can almost feel how tightly his muscles are wound, how he is fighting himself, waiting for her cue on how to proceed.   
    
She takes a deep breath and releases it on a shaky exhale.  Gripping his hand more tightly, she twists it back in a motion that tumbles the knot free, sending the towel sliding to the floor.  They stand there for a moment, neither moving.  She is acutely aware of her nudity and his clothing.   
    
His tongue wets his upper lip and she has the sensation that he is going to say something.  Apparently, he changes his mind.    
    
With a muffled curse, he grabs her, one of his hands threading through her wet tresses, gripping the back of her head, the other banding across her lower back, pulling her tightly against his body.  Their mouths meet in a voracious kiss.  Her lips part instantly and he takes full advantage, pulling her close as he arches her backward, deepening the kiss, demanding her submission.  Never one to go quietly, she nips at his lips, biting down gently, marking her territory in return.  From the rumbling growl at the back of his throat, she knows he approves.   
    
Her arms twine around his neck and she pushes herself against him, fighting to get closer.  The coarse material of his black tunic and the supple texture of his synthleather tabard are exquisite torture against her naked skin.  With an impatient snarl, he pulls away long enough to tear at his obi and tabard, shrugging out of his tunic until the clothing joins her towel on the bedroom floor.    
    
And then he is there, bare from the waist up, tumbling her back onto the bed.  She reaches for him, her short fingernails biting into the flesh of his upper arms, pulling him down on top of her.  Kissing him possessively, her nerves singing with pleasure at the sensation of his bare chest pressed to hers.  It has been  _so_ long since she last felt the weight of his naked body pressing down on her own.   
    
He breaks off the kiss, his lips finding the tender flesh of her neck as he fights to kick off his boots.  One of his hands covers her breast and she arches into his touch, groaning.  His kisses nip down the sensitive column of her neck and across her collarbone.  She gasps, tunneling her fingers through his hair as his mouth seals over her nipple.  He bites down gently and she yelps in pleasure-pain.  Not stopping his sensual assault, he sucks harder.  Heat pools low in her belly, intensifying in perfect rhythm with the pull of his mouth.  Moaning, she arches insistently beneath him.  He releases her nipple from his mouth long enough to look up and meet her gaze with a smug, carnal grin.   
    
There is something in that grin that is a bit too self-assured and she takes it as a challenge.  She pushes off the bed with one leg, twisting beneath him and he allows her to flip him over on his back.  She immediately crawls over him, straddling his hips, her hands braced against his shoulders, pinning him to the bed.   
    
She stares down at him through narrowed eyes and he does nothing to conceal his absolute delight in her play of dominance.  Some things never change.  He loves few things more than a good fight and this particular sensual combat has always been his favorite – even when he loses, he still wins.   
    
Sinking on her haunches, she sits back on him, sealing her pelvis to his.  The insistent jut of his erection presses against her most intimate places and she gasps at the sensation, her eyes falling shut as she shivers in pleasure.  His hands find her hips, grinding her down against his aroused body.  Biting down on her bottom lip, she rocks gently back and forth against the coarse material of his pants.   
    
Opening her eyes, she looks down at him.  “You’re still wearing an awful lot of clothes,” she says.   
    
“I'm more than happy to fix that,” he replies in all seriousness.   
    
She can’t prevent the giggle that crosses her lips.  Rising up on her knees, she tugs impatiently at the waistband of his pants.  True to his word, he is all too eager to assist and soon the pants join the rest of their clothes on the floor.   
    
Poised over him on all fours, she looks down into the perfect blue of his eyes.  For a moment, the playful, aggressive demeanor is gone and he meets her gaze in silence.  His hand cups her cheek and he pulls her close for a tender kiss that leaves her breathless.   
    
But in the span of a few heartbeats, the tenderness turns once again to hunger and she is aching for his touch.  “Ani,” she pants against his lips.   
    
He groans, one of his hands finding her hip and then tickling gently across her belly to her nest of damp, wiry curls.  His fingers sift gently through the coarse hair, parting the lips of her sex.  She is wet for him, her dew liberally coating his questing fingers.  He rubs her gently, his fingers trailing over the sensitive bud of her clit, causing her breath to catch in her throat.  But he does not linger there, his fingers venture lower and one slips inside her body, gently teasing in the place where she aches so desperately for him.   
    
She moans, her teeth finding the corded muscle of his shoulder and biting down hard.  His breath hisses through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop his gentle ministrations, adding a second finger to her liquid depths.  She shivers again, arching against his hand, needing more.  He complies, using his thumb to press against her clit while his fingers rock in and out of her body with the movement of her hips.   
    
All at once, she grabs his hand, pulling it away, pinning it to the bed.  She looks down at him, her vision unfocused.  “No,” she pants harshly.   
    
She sees the emotions flit across his face, the fear and betrayal when he thinks she is rejecting him.   
    
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.  “No,” she clarifies softly, using her free hand to gently grasp his erection, circling her fingers around the girth and stroking him in one long move.  “I want you inside me when I come.”   
    
His expression of betrayal vanishes so quickly it might have never been there.  With a growl, he rolls them both, flipping her over on her back and insinuating himself between her legs.  She feels his cock hard and impressive against her inner thigh and she aches to feel him inside her.  She reaches for him and he reins in his own needs, allowing her to explore as she wishes.  His skin is so hot, his entire body so muscled and firm.  She forgot what this is like, this intimacy and need and utter fascination with his physical form.   His body is more impressive now than when they were newly wed.  He has matured, aged to perfection.  Decades spent training not only his mind and skills, but his physical body wrought impressive ends.    
    
Vanity was always one of his favorite sins and she looks up, meeting his gaze.  He is watching her intently, luxuriating in her appreciation of his body.  Normally his smugness would bother her, but in this context, she figures he deserves to be a little vain.    
    
With a carnal grin, she scratches her short fingernails down his muscled chest and firm abdomen.  She reaches his sex and her touch gentles, her smile fading.  Lightly, her fingertips trace over the rigid length of his erection.  His hips jump reflexively under her touch and she can see his jaw muscles clench tightly as he fights to remain still.    
    
She closes her hand around his sex, stroking the length of him.  "Padmé," he groans, his eyes falling shut.  She smiles deviously, filled with raw, feminine power.  He is a sinfully handsome alpha male who is capable of having any woman he chooses.  Knowing she has the power to affect him so profoundly is a heady sensation.   
    
She prolongs the exquisite torture, stroking him faster and then slower, loosening and then tightening her grip.  On the upward strokes, her thumb caresses the head of his cock, making his breath hiss between his teeth.    
    
He finally grabs her wrist and in a mirror image of her earlier actions, pins her hand to the bed.  He stares into her eyes and she knows.  She moves restlessly beneath him and he covers her body with his own.  Capturing her lips in a tender kiss, he uses one hand to guide his cock to her entrance.  She is so primed for him, so wet that he slides inside her easily, entering her completely in one long, seamless thrust.    
    
She yelps his name, her legs wrapping around his waist as her fingernails dig into the corded muscle of his back.  He gasps and then bites down gently on her earlobe, forcing himself to hold still, giving her time.  She pants harshly, turning her head and pulling her earlobe free of his teeth so she can nip along his stubbled jaw.  The feel of him inside her is exquisite pleasure bordered by pain.  It has been  _so_  long.   
    
No longer able to remain still, he pulls back and slides inside her again.  They both gasp at the sensation.  He repeats the fluid motion again and again, driving into her more forcefully with every thrust.  Heat and tension coil inside her body and her fingernails bite deeply into his flesh.  He doesn't seem to notice.  He is driving into her now, mindless of everything save their combined pleasure.  Her internal muscles flutter around him and he groans her name, thrusting harder, faster.   
    
There is a blinding flash of light behind her eyes and she is spinning away, crying out his name as her entire body shivers in unendurable pleasure.  She is only dimly aware of his body cording above hers, her name on his lips as he finds his own release.   
    
***   
    
Anakin is sleeping on his right side, his body turned toward her, his face half-buried in a pillow.  Looking exhausted, he snores softly.  In his sleep, his flesh and bone arm is banded possessively around her waist, holding her against his body.  She takes careful note of the scrapes and scabs on his knuckles that he must have sustained in the explosion.   
    
His bare feet stick out from beneath the blanket loosely draped around both of them.  It strikes Padmé as oddly vulnerable to see a Sith Lord's bare feet.  She can’t remember the last time she had the opportunity to watch him like this, his expression relaxed and peaceful.  He doesn’t look like the Emperor or a Sith Lord.  He looks like her Ani.  He looks like the brave young soldier who shared her bed so many years ago.  There are differences to be certain.  He is more scarred.  And more tired.  And more broken.   
    
So is she.   
    
The cut across his left cheek is starting to scab and there is some bruising.  A simple bacta patch would heal his skin perfectly and leave no scar but apparently he was too agitated to worry about his own vanity.  Or maybe not.  It gives him a certain roguish look – not that he ever needed any help in that department.   
    
She gently runs her fingertips over his abused skin and his eye flutters open.  He watches her carefully, pushing himself up on his right arm.  She can tell that it takes him a moment to get his bearings, to remember where he is and why she is here.  Padmé can’t point out any one thing he does, but she gets the distinct impression he is not accustomed to waking up in bed with another person.   
    
"I fell asleep," he says, his voice rough from sleep.   
    
"You were tired," she says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.   
    
He makes an appreciative sound and pushes her back against the pillow, deepening the kiss.  He finally pulls back far enough to look her in the eyes.  "I missed you," he says seriously.  "And I don't mean the sex."   
    
"Speak for yourself," she huffs.  "I missed the sex."   
    
"I missed the sex too," he clarifies, "but that's not what I'm talking about."  He growls in frustration.  "You're ruining my moment."   
    
She tries not to laugh, propping herself up on her elbow.  She kisses him gently on the end of the nose.  "I'm sorry," she says unrepentantly.   
    
He frowns, pulling her closer.  " I missed you," he says intensely.  "Everything about you.  Talking and touching  _and sex_."   
    
“Really?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.  “But you had Angel to keep you company.”  It’s petty and jealous and yet Padmé cannot stop herself from uttering the words.  She needs to know the intimacy they shared is not typical for him, that it is as sacred to him as it is to her.   
    
“She’s not you,” he says firmly, but he won’t meet her gaze.   
    
She presses her hand to his cheek and forces him to look at her.    
    
“I’ve had moments of weakness,” he says seriously, “but Angel is not you.  Not in any way that matters and honestly, she disturbs me deeply.”   
    
Padmé is surprised by his candor and more surprised by the fact that she believes him.    
    
“Angel should be the perfect revenge,” he muses wryly.  “She looks just like you and her only desire is to please.”  He shakes his head, frowning.  “But to be so close to her and realize none of the things that make you …  _you_  are present is … unsettling.”   
    
“I thought I was nothing but a headache,” she says cattily, turning his words from the Hapan dinner against him.   
    
“Oh, you’re definitely a headache,” he counters, grinning mischievously as he forces her on her back and crawls over her body.  “But you have a way of making up for the trouble you put me through.”   
    
She returns his smile and pulls him close, pressing her lips to his.  He sighs, kissing her back.   
    
The door to Padmé’s bedroom hisses open and Leia charges inside.  “Mom, have you seen Dad?  Lorian said he was – “  Leia comes to a dead stop in the middle of Padmé’s bedroom, her shock instantly morphing into horror.   
    
Padmé stares at her daughter.  The sheet and blankets cover Padmé and Anakin from head to toe, Leia can’t see anything.  But there is absolutely no mistaking exactly what is transpiring.   
    
With a strangled sound somewhere between mortification and revulsion, Leia flees, closing the door behind her.    
    
Padmé groans, dislodging Anakin as she rolls onto her side, burying her face in the pillow.  The bed shakes with the force of Anakin’s laughter and she lifts her head to glare at him.   
    
“Why is it that you can remember to lock the door to your office, but not my bedroom?” she demands waspishly.   
    
“Leia will recover,” Anakin replies casually.  “It serves her right for barging in.  She’s lucky she didn’t do it a half hour ago.”   
    
Padmé is significantly less amused than her husband.  While Leia's presence at the medcenter and obvious concern assuaged many of Padmé's fears, she knows Leia still perceives her as a rival for Anakin's attentions.  This certainly will not help matters.   
    
"Maybe we should go to my place next time," he says.  "The kids can't open those doors."   
    
Padmé frowns at him, secretly wondering if Anakin knows Luke went through his personal files and that is why he decided to make sure neither of the twins could access his personal quarters.   
    
"I hate your place," she says seriously.  "It reminds me of the garage at the farmstead."   
    
He chuckles, pressing kisses to her neck while one of his hands tries to find its way under the sheet to her breast.  "Me too," he says.   
    
Padmé rolls her eyes, well remembering that the garage was the first place she and Anakin ever made love.  "You've improved since the garage," she says, hoping to knock him down a peg or two.   
    
It doesn't work.  "I know," he says smugly.   
    
She looks at him.  "You are an odd creature, Anakin Skywalker."   
    
He waggles an eyebrow at her.    
    
"That wasn't supposed to be a compliment," she clarifies.   
 


	15. Chapter 15

Padmé straightens her gown, thinking of her clothes from Tatooine with longing.  As much as she wishes to connect with the part of Anakin which yearns for his homeworld, such simple attire would not be appropriate.  She needs to remind everyone – herself included – of her station and her position within the Empire.   
    
She sighs and glances over as her bedroom door opens.  Anakin stands there for a moment looking her up and down.  He is dressed in the same black tunic and pants he wore earlier.  She easily reads the unmistakable look of satisfaction on his features.    
    
She wonders what it means to him to have his wife once again sharing his bed.  They have so many issues to address, so much to resolve.  It was frivolous and self-indulgent to spend the afternoon in bed, especially when they don't have time to truly explore what this change means to them and their relationship.    
    
He must sense the flow of her emotions in the Force for his smile fades.  Wordlessly, he steps aside, bidding her to walk past him into the hallway.   
    
When they enter the living room, Lorian and Mehht are waiting.  Padmé's cheeks pinken.  The tender flesh of her neck and jaw – and some far more delicate, hidden regions – is abraded from Anakin’s unshaven face.  Despite a second shower and clean clothes, she knows she looks tired.  There is no doubt Lorian and Mehht know what transpired between the Emperor and his Empress.  As usual, Lorian's face betrays no emotion.  Mehht, however, is positively buzzing with curiosity.  Padmé avoids her gaze.   
    
Lorian hands a datapad to Anakin.  “Taly’s final report,” he says grimly.   
    
Anakin scrolls through the data.  “How bad is it?”   
    
“Thousands of Senators are involved,” Lorian says.  “I suspect that is a conservative estimate.  Taly only implicated individuals he was certain he could prove are conspirators.”   
    
Padmé feels sick.  This can’t be happening.  “Involved how?” she asks.  “Credits?”   
    
“In most cases, yes,” Lorian says.  “All funneled to Byss.”   
    
Anakin’s vision is fixed on the screen.  "Palpatine amassed enormous repositories of incriminating information on all sorts of people.  I suspect he’s putting it to use now.”   
    
“Do you really think he’s back?” she whispers.   
    
Anakin turns to face his wife, his expression softening.  “I do,” he says.  “I don’t know how.  Considering the length of his absence, I suspect whatever dark powers he used to sustain himself took a considerable toll.”   
    
Padmé wonders if Anakin appreciates the irony of his words.  She doubts it.  “And Leia’s involvement?”   
    
“We don't know,” Lorian says.  "There is nothing in the records Taly found to tie her to any of this."   
    
“I’m leaving for the Imperial Detention Center," Anakin says.  "If Korto knows anything, I will find out.”   
    
"I want to go," Padmé says boldly.  She sees the look on Anakin's face and immediately heads him off.  "Leia is my daughter too.  I have a right to know as much as you do."   
    
"You're not going," Anakin informs her firmly.  "It's not safe.  You need to stay here with Lorian and Mehht."   
    
He's lying and she knows it.  What place could possibly be safer for her than inside his fortress at his side?  She steps closer to him, turning her back to Lorian and Mehht.  “You can’t keep me safe if I’m at arm’s length,” she whispers.   
    
He looks down at her with an unreadable expression.   “That may be the only way I can ever keep you safe,” he says.  Without another word, he shoots a pointed look at Lorian and then turns on his heel, leaving her.   
    
***   
    
"Milady," the droid says, carefully setting the cup of caf on the table before retreating.   
    
Padmé gratefully sips the drink.  It is late afternoon and she sits at a small table on the veranda of her penthouse.  Anakin left more than an hour ago and Padmé retreated outside to give Lorian and Mehht – and herself - privacy.   
    
Sitting here alone, she has time to think.  Padmé knows the danger of opening herself up emotionally to her husband.  She knows how easy it would be to lose herself in her love and desire for Anakin, to overlook his sins.  To overlook Vader.  She learned that lesson the hard way.  And it cost the entire galaxy a great deal.  She will not do it again.    
    
But she doesn’t want to live without passion.  She doesn’t want to live a stilted, desolate existence without Anakin.  She can feel Anakin changing, feel his lightness gaining ground on his darkness.  But he isn’t the man she married.  She is slowly growing to accept he will never be that man again.    
    
"Are you okay?"   
    
Pulled from her thoughts, Padmé turns to see Mehht standing in the doorway.    
    
“News of the explosion is all over Holonet,” Mehhts says, her lips pursed into a thin line as she looks Padmé over.    
    
Padmé hates that Mehht had to learn of her injuries second hand.  Mehht has been her closest confidant for years and yet in the last few days, a distance has grown between them.  Both of them have been so enmeshed in their own affairs there has been little time to connect.  "I'm fine," Padmé says softly.    
    
Mehht crosses the veranda and sits down, critically staring at Padmé.   
    
Gently, Padmé presses the pads of her fingers to the bruise at her temple.  "Considering I was almost killed, I don't think it's too bad," she says.   
    
Mehht shakes her head.  “Not bad considering.  You’ll be good as new before you know it.”   
    
Padmé inwardly marvels at the situation.  As recently as a few weeks ago, Mehht would have vilified Anakin.  Mehht would have blamed him for putting her in jeopardy.  Yet now, Mehht remains silent.  In that instant, Padmé knows Mehht truly loves Lorian.  Mehht is many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them. Mehhts now understands what it means to truly care for a man so similar to Anakin.  For the first time ever Padmé feels as though she has a confidant who truly understands her plight.    
    
Setting her cup in its saucer, Padmé looks directly into Mehht’s eyes.  “He didn’t want me with him at the detention center.”    
    
Mehht shakes her head somberly.  “No, he didn’t.”   
    
Padmé stares at her cup of caf.  “He’s going to torture Korto to death.”  She looks at Mehht, searching for something she can’t articulate, even to herself.   
    
“Korto tried to have you killed,” Mehht says plainly, her jaw firmly set.  It is clear she finds no fault in Anakin’s actions.  Any justice to be found on Tatooine is of the vigilante variety.  In their combined history is plenty of precedent for this situation.  Owen Lars participated in more than a few raiding parties solely for the purpose of exacting justice.    
    
“Anakin destroyed the Jedi Order and toppled the Republic in order to protect me.  I lied to myself.  I ignored the signs.  I held my tongue until it was far too late,” Padmé whispers.  “I won’t do it again.  I can’t condone this path.  Even if Korto is guilty, no good will come from his death.”   
    
“Your husband is the Emperor,” Mehht says firmly, but not cruelly.  “You can’t stop him.”   
    
Pushing herself to her feet, Padmé looks at her friend with sad eyes.  “I have to try.  Not for Korto,  for Anakin.  I have to try.”   
    
***   
    
The first of Coruscant’s innumerable layers of buildings were erected hundreds of millennia ago.  Through countless governments, social movements and architectural sensibilities, level upon level has risen toward the stratosphere.  Galactic City is constantly re-inventing itself.  Quadrants fall in and out of vogue, wealth migrates from one subblock to the next.  The only constant in this eternal metropolis is change.   
    
And yet, there are certain places – even on Coruscant - where things never change.   
    
Padmé looks at the damp stone walls still caked with countless layers of torch soot despite the fact that torches haven’t been used as illumination for millennia. The Imperial Senate Complex was once a shipyard.  Before that it was an apartment block.  Millennia before that, it was one of the giant Rakatan foundries. Yet unlike the Senate Complex, Padmé knows Imperial Military Detention Center H5 has been a place of pain and death since humanity first crawled from the primordial ooze.  Darkness seems to seep from the stone walls.  Padmé can’t suppress a shiver.   
    
At her side, Lorian betrays no hint of his reaction to this place.  His lips are pursed into a thin grim line and he is not happy to be here.  He did everything he could to try and prevent Padmé from coming here, but short of physically restraining her, he had no choice.    
    
Their way is soon blocked by a heavy iron door.  Lorian grabs the handle, but rather than pulling it open, he turns and looks at her.  “You’re sure you want to see this?”   
    
Completely unsure, Padmé swallows thickly before nodding.   
    
Reluctantly, Lorian pulls the door open and stands aside so Padmé can enter.   
    
In this room, torches burn in their sconces as they did millennia ago.  There is a stone pit in the middle of the room where a fire crackles.  It would seem more welcoming if there weren’t branding irons glowing red hot within the flames.    
    
Padmé sees the scene before her but in what is no doubt a self-preservation tactic of her mind, it doesn’t immediately register.  Little by little details come into sharp focus; the cold damp feel of this place seeping into her bones; the dark, congealed liquid glinting off the stone floor and walls; the acrid stench of burning flesh; the wet, sucking sound of Korto struggling for breath; the nauseous bite of bile rising at the back of her throat.   
    
Padmé turns away, coughing quickly to stave off retching.  She covers her face with her hands, but nothing can block out the horrifying smell of Korto’s burning flesh.  The twi’lek doesn’t moan or cry out in pain and Padmé knows it isn’t because the repulsive creature isn’t in pain.  It is because he isn’t physically capable of making noise.   
    
“What’s she doing here?” Anakin demands of Lorian.   
    
Lorian stands his ground, holding his head high as he faces the Emperor.  “The Empress commanded I bring her here,” he says.   
    
Padmé forces her reactions under control, turning to face Anakin.  She won’t let him punish Lorian for following her orders.    
    
The sight before her is shocking.   
    
Anakin stands facing Lorian.  Though Lorian is slightly taller, Anakin is larger, his shoulders broader, his frame muscled by a lifetime of physical training.  Bare to the waist, he is dressed only in a pair of loose fitting black pants.  His skin glistens with sweat and blood.  The blood is undoubtedly Korto’s, sprayed across Anakin’s well defined chest, arms and even his stubble-roughened face.  His hair is completely soaked with sweat making it appear far darker than it truly is.  In his right hand is one of the branding irons.  In his left is a knife.  It isn’t a vibro blade.  It isn’t a technological marvel.  It’s simply a piece of sharpened metal forged solely for the purpose of inflicting pain.   
    
He looks at her, his expression cruel.  “I didn’t realize you were so eager to watch me work.”   
    
She swallows thickly, forcing herself not to cower.  “I’m not.”   
    
He laughs.  “Really?  You forced Lorian to bring you here.”  He looks at his most prized lieutenant, sneering at him.  “I’m sure Lorian tried to talk you out of it. He never shies from this sort of thing, but he prefers to keep his dark deeds secret.  He’s very concerned about protecting the gentle feminine sensibilities.”  He turns to Padmé, smiling broadly.  “Are you going to tell your little moisture farmer about this?  What do you think she’ll think about her dashing young Imperial operative now?  He got a pretty good start on Korto before I arrived.”   
    
“ _Anakin,_ ” she says softly.    
    
But unlike their exchange at the medcenter, this time her gentle plea seems to enrage him further.   
    
“Why are you here, Padmé?” he demands.  “Do you want to see how many pieces I can carve Korto into before he finally dies?”   
    
Padmé shakes her head vigorously, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from gagging.  “Lorian said you were trying to find engineering schematics Korto stole from the Imperial data repositories.”   
    
Anakin nods almost casually like he isn’t standing in the middle of a dungeon covered in his victim’s blood.  “Korto had them,” he confirms.  “His quarters were searched, but someone ransacked them before we had a chance.  The plans were gone.”   
    
“Why are you doing this if he doesn’t have the information you want?” she pleads.    
    
Anakin laughs again.  “Oh, Korto couldn’t tell us anything even if he wanted to,” he says with sickening cheer.  “He hasn’t had a tongue for hours.  Or fingers. So unless Twi’leks have learned to communicate telepathically, he’s not telling anyone anything.”  He uses the back of the knife blade to absently scratch at his opposite shoulder.  The metal is covered with gore and  Padmé can’t help but gag.   
    
Lorian steps closer, reaching out a hand to Padmé.  He is Force shoved backwards into the wall.  Padmé stops herself from running to Lorian’s aid.  She knows it would only spark Anakin’s wrath.    
    
Anakin crosses the distance to Lorian.  He looks his lieutenant over closely.  For the first time, Lorian’s stoic veneer cracks the tiniest bit and Padmé can feel how nervous he is.    
    
Leaning in closely, Anakin whispers, “You can’t protect her from me.  No one can.”   
    
Lorian steels his resolve, his jaw clenches tightly.  Padmé knows he is about to do something fatally stupid.   
    
“Lorian, leave us,” she says imperiously.   
    
Both Lorian and Anakin turn to face her.  While Lorian’s features are incredulous, Anakin’s are smug.   
    
“Milady – “   
    
“Now, Lorian,” Padmé commands.  “Leave us.”   
    
Anakin chuckles, leaving Lorian’s side to return to his wife.  He stops directly in front of her and Padmé stands perfectly still, back ramrod straight.  Anakin reaches out and traces a finger along her jaw.  She knows it leaves a trail of blood, but she does not react.   
    
Without taking his gaze from Padmé, Anakin says, “Your Empress bought your clemency, Lorian.  You best heed her words.”   
    
Padmé is still staring into Anakin’s eyes when she hears the door clang shut.   
    
“Why are you here?” he asks again, this time angrily.   
    
“I want you to spare Korto.”   
    
He snorts, turning away.  He walks over to the fire, stoking it with the branding iron.  He finally drops the iron into the flames.  He looks down at the knife he holds, studying it in his palm.  He tosses it several times, easily catching it again.   
    
Padmé knows he is trying to scare her.  She is fully aware he is capable of using the knife to harm.  However, she does not truly believe he would ever physically harm her.  He wants to scare her, to chase her away, not to maim her.   
    
“Korto’s already dead,” he says flatly.  “He died the second he intended you harm.”   
    
She takes several steps and reaches out, pressing her palm to the bare flesh of his muscled back.  Her nail marks from several hours ago are still clearly visible on his skin.  “I don’t wish his death,” she says.   
    
He steps away, breaking the physical contact and turns to face her.  “And you think I should spare his life because you ask?”   
    
She nods.   
    
Anakin smiles cruelly and offers her the knife.  “It would be far more humane to finish him off.  With the extent of his injuries, he won’t have much of a life.”   
    
She looks at the knife and then back to his eyes.  “I am asking you to spare him.  For me.”  There is a moment, a connection.  She is no longer his wife in name only.  Her lips are still swollen from his kisses, her body still aches deliciously from their lovemaking.    
    
“I will not stay at arms’ length, my lord.”   
    
Silence hangs in the air for innumerable heartbeats.  She does not know where exactly the demarcation resides in her husband’s soul and mind, but she knows in this moment he is more Vader and less Anakin.  And still, she cannot turn away.  Both sides of him are always present, one ceding dominance to the other as the situation demands.  She realizes now the danger for both her and Anakin lies in denying his duality, in trying to deny his darkness.  Darkness is part of who he is.  It doesn’t have to rule him as it has for so long.  But to deny the darkness, to fight it, only feeds Vader’s power.    
    
Finally Anakin shrugs, tossing the knife onto a nearby table.  He yells something in a language Padmé doesn’t understand and several robed creatures scurry into the room through a door she hadn’t noticed.    
    
“His life is on your conscience,” Anakin says.  “I doubt he will think you merciful.”   
    
Padmé turns away.  Anakin probably has a point, but she is not willing to concede that now.  He turns, walking through the door and she follows.  They walk down a short hallway and down a set of narrow, curving stone stairs.  She runs her fingertips along the wall, wetting them with the condensation and wiping frantically at the blood trail on her jaw.  They walk down a short hallway before entering another room with a heavy iron door.   
    
This room is much like the previous.  Same damp stone walls, ceiling and floor.  However the illumination is provided by standard electric lightbulbs and a small heater in the corner provides meager warmth.  There is a sleeping couch in the corner and a table with a computer terminal and a comlink.    
    
Most importantly - nobody is being carved into little pieces in this room.   
    
In one corner is a showerhead with no enclosure.  Underneath it a grate is cut into the stone floor.  She watches as Anakin quickly discards his pants and steps under the showerhead.  With the turn of a faucet, water rains over his naked flesh, quickly washing away the sweat and blood.  He takes his time and Padmé watches, unable to look away.   
    
She knows he tortured Korto.  She knows he has done far worse.  And in spite of that, she still cares for him.  She still believes he is a good man and he is strong enough to fight his way out of this darkness.   
    
He scrubs at his hair with the pads of his fingers and then leans forward, bracing his palms against the stone wall, allowing the water to sluice over his skin. Padmé feels heat rise in her body as she watches him.  She watches the water cascade over his toned, muscled flesh, his well defined backside and legs.  She knows he is very aware of her attention to his naked body.   That knowledge sends electric tendrils of desire curling outward from the pit of her stomach.    
    
She watches as he runs one hand down his chest.  His fingers brush across his pectorals, down his rippled abdominal muscles and then venture lower.  She watches as he strokes his quickly hardening cock several times.    
    
She swallows thickly, exhaling loudly.  His attention snaps to her and he stands there under the water, watching her predatorily.  Without taking his eyes from hers, he reaches out and turns off the water.  The abrupt lack of sound is startling and Padmé is excruciatingly aware of the deafening cadence of her own quickening breath.    
    
Like some great predatory feline, he stalks across the floor toward her, his bare feet making no sound on the stone floor.  Her heart pounds in her chest and she is overwhelmed by a primal, instinctive urge to run.  She forces herself to stay rooted to the floor.  If she runs, he would most certainly give chase.  There is little doubt as to how quickly he would catch her.  She suspects Lord Vader would love nothing more than to run her to ground, to catch her and dominate her in the oldest, most basic way a man can dominate a woman.  It would serve to remind them both what a monster he is, how separate he is from Anakin Skywalker.   
    
She will not run.  Not from Anakin Skywalker.  Not from Lord Vader.    
    
She stands there, her chest heaving as she watches him approach.  He stops several feet from her, examining her with a cruel, ravenous gaze.  She cannot stop her eyes from dipping to his tumescent cock.  Her vision immediately flicks back to his face and he sneers, using his hand to once again stroke his rigid flesh.    
    
He wants her to be scared.    
    
And she is.    
    
But she is also aroused.   
    
When they started their physical relationship nearly two decades ago, behavior like this from him would have terrified her.  It probably would have sent her screaming for the door.  But this life has stripped her of most of her illusions, even those about herself.  She is not pleased by the desire she feels for him in this moment, but she is finished with trying to deny it.  For better or for worse, she physically hungers for the man before her.  Perhaps he is not the only one with a dark side.    
    
She takes one tentative step toward him, then another.  She lifts her hand, tracing her fingertips lightly over his chest.  She can almost feel his shock though he tries to hide it, tries to act nonchalant.  She looks up into his eyes.  He stares down at her coldly.   
    
She doesn’t buy his act for a second.  He wants her, here and now on this cold stone floor.  Trying to deny that fact while his convincing argument to the contrary pokes her in the stomach gives no doubt as to just how much Lord Vader fears this intimacy.   
    
She smiles up at him and it is a carnal, giddy smile full of feminine power.  As newlyweds, their sexual relationship was definitely filled with passion, but not a great deal of experimentation.  They were both so young and ignorant and afraid of disappointing or shocking the other they rarely ventured outside vanilla sex. While Padmé had no complaints at the time, sixteen years of chastity have given her more than a few ideas she wishes to put to the test.  She doubts he will protest.   
    
Still holding his gaze, she drops to her knees before him.  One of his eyebrows arches, but he does not move.    
    
Still smiling up at him, she grasps his cock gently in her hand.  She doesn’t take her eyes from his as she presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the underside before drawing back and laving her tongue up the length of him.    
    
His gaze burns with intensity.  Shifting his weight, he widens his stance.  She licks him again, this time, lingering at the head of his cock, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum.  He groans and his lips fall open as he pants, his tongue flicking out to wet his upper lip.  His left hand traces her cheek.  Teasing the head of his cock with her bottom lip, she stares into the perfect blue of his irises.    
    
His hand traces along her jaw until his thumb reaches the corner of her mouth.  It lingers there, gently rubbing against her bottom lip.  She gives him a wicked grin, turning her head and sucking his thumb into her mouth.  She sucks hard, biting gently with her teeth, never letting her gaze falter from his.  She can easily read the excitement in his eyes.   
    
She finally turns away, breaking eye contact as she releases his thumb.  She takes the head of his cock in her mouth.  Using her hand to stroke his length, she traces the head with her tongue.  She allows her eyes to fall shut, concentrating on the taste and feel of him.    
    
His fingers brush along her jaw, gently threading through her hair, but he does not attempt to guide her movements.  He whispers her name and she takes him deep into her mouth before pulling back to the very tip.  She repeats the action again and again and again, taking more of him with each pass.  Her hand ventures lower, cupping his testicles as she takes as much of him into her mouth as she can.  With a shout he explodes, spilling into her mouth.  Padmé swallows, stroking him gently with her hands and mouth until he is fully spent.  She finally pulls back, releasing him from her mouth and sitting back on her haunches.  She looks into his eyes.    
    
He stares down at her, his jaw slack as he breathes heavily through his mouth.  He closes his mouth, swallowing as he drags a hand through his hair.   
    
Padmé licks the corner of her mouth, catching a drop she missed.   
    
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says seriously.   
    
“Maybe,” she admits wickedly.  “But I promise you’ll like it.”   
    
“I have no doubt about that.”   
  


	16. Chapter 16

He walks half a step behind her, his hand resting at the small of her back in a gesture that is both possessive and protective.  Her palms and knees ache, her flesh abraded from the rough stone floor.  Not that Padmé's complaining.  At least he isn't actively trying to scare her away.   
    
She doesn't know who he is right now – Anakin, Vader; she's not certain.  She doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.  He hasn't shown any signs of feeling inclined to converse so it's difficult to get a read on his emotions or thoughts.  She has the impression she scandalized him with her earlier actions – shocked him to his core.  She doesn't think he quite knows how to handle the recent change in their personal dynamics.  She is beginning to believe that for all of Lord Vader's aggression, what he was really trying to accomplish was to protect her from himself.  She doesn't think he believed it possible she could know the real him and accept him.   
    
On that point, she doesn't necessarily fault him.  She knew – years ago – that Anakin Skywalker was changing.  She could feel the darkness in him, the secrecy mounting, the lies, the misdirection.  And she looked the other way.  She told herself he was a good man – and he was.  But she denied any possibility that darkness,  _true_  darkness lay in wait inside him.  She was so busy deluding herself, pushing the truth away with both hands that when he finally admitted to her what he was doing, she was completely unprepared.    
    
It took Padmé years to come to terms with his actions, with her contribution to the outcome.  But fourteen years of hiding on Tatooine didn't change anything.  It didn't help anything.  She thought she was so wise back then.  She was a Queen, a Senator.  She achieved so much, experienced so much.  And yet, when it was all said and done, when the Republic fell, when Anakin fell, she felt like a naïve child.  She was heartbroken, humiliated, lost.    
    
Time may not have healed her wounds – she doubts anything can ever heal those wounds – but it gave her a great deal of perspective.  Despite the depth of her personal tragedy, she did continue to live, to draw breath.  She cared for her children, watched them grow.  And somewhere along the way, she learned to live again.  It wasn't a glamorous life, not particularly joyous most of the time either, but it was a life.  And she is a far different woman today from the heartbroken girl who followed her husband to Mustafar hoping he could take it all back.   
    
Lord Vader is going to have to learn to accept her – and himself.  Because neither of them are going anywhere.   
    
They turn a corner and the hand-hewn stone gives way to modern duracrete.  Padmé breathes easier.  If she never has to venture into the bowels of Imperial Military Detention Center H5 again, she will consider herself blessed.  They continue walking in silence until they come to a small hangar bay.  He ushers her inside the shuttle, ordering the pilot away and taking the controls himself.   
    
Sitting in the co-pilot's seat, she is surprised to find it is still night.  Time seemed to stop inside that eerie place.  A quick glance at the console's chrono informs her that dawn will be quickly approaching.  She's so exhausted she isn't even certain if she feels tired.   
    
Turning, she studies his profile for a moment.  “What did Korto tell you?”   
    
He doesn't turn to look at her, keeping his vision straight ahead.  “Nothing useful.”   
    
Undaunted, she presses, “What about the schematics?”   
    
He finally turns and looks at her.  “The plans he stole are old, obsolete.  They’re from a project that was abandoned as soon as I became Emperor.”   
    
“But Korto stole the plans and then someone stole them from him?”   
    
“Yes.”   
    
Padmé waits a moment, then another, her patience wearing thinner with every passing second.  “Anakin, what were the damn plans?” she demands.   
    
He looks at her again, smiling in amusement at her show of temper.  ”The plans were for a technological terror Palpatine was hell bent on constructing.  It was a ridiculous waste of money and resources.  I objected to it from the very beginning and as soon as he was dead, I scrapped the entire project.”   
    
Padmé sinks back in her seat, chewing on her bottom lip.  The deeper they dig, the more questions they find.   
    
***   
    
The sky is pinkening with dawn as they step out of the turbolift and make their way to the door of her penthouse.   When they step inside, Mehht and Lorian are waiting.  Mehht immediately crosses the room to Padmé.  "Are you okay?" she asks.   
    
"I'm fine," Padmé says quietly.  She can only imagine what Lorian might have told Mehht about the scene at the detention center.  She supposes it is quite a testament to Lorian's attachment to Mehht that he mentioned anything at all.  She doubts he is accustomed to having confidants himself.   
    
A quick glance at Anakin confirms her suspicions that he's glaring at Lorian.  Across the room, Lorian's expression is completely unreadable.   
    
"Have you seen or heard from Leia?" Padmé asks.   
    
"Not since she ran out of here yesterday afternoon," Mehht replies.   
    
Padmé frowns.  With a few mumbled excuses, she leaves Mehht and Lorian in the living room and walks toward her bedroom with Anakin following close behind.  "We may have scarred Leia for life," Padmé says wryly as her bedroom door hisses shut.   
    
Anakin shrugs, unconcerned.  "She was more than happy to insinuate to you that I had a sordid affair with your clone," he says.  "She can learn to live with our relationship."   
    
While Padmé thinks he's being a bit too flip about the whole situation, she supposes he has a point.  Leia is for all intents and purposes, an adult.  She may not want to know the intimate details of her parents' relationship, but she will have to accept that it exists.    
    
Padmé now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that this thing between her and her husband is a relationship and it is going to continue.  She walks to the windows and pulls the heavy curtains closed against the blossoming dawn.  She glances over her shoulder at him.  "We need to sleep."   
    
***   
    
 _She doesn't have to open her eyes to know that she knows this place.  The wind whips around her and she can feel the tiny pebbles of sand beat against her exposed flesh.  Slowly, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, shielding her eyes with her hand as she carefully opens her eyelids._    
   
 _It's night.  The cold of the Jundland Wastes bites into her very bones.   Before her is a Tusken camp.  She can see bodies spaced randomly around the habitats, lying awkwardly where they fell.  Carefully, she rises to her feet.  She has no shoes and the uneven rocks and sand dig painfully into her cold feet.  She stumbles forward, carefully picking her way between the bodies and the dwellings._    
   
 _The howling wind is the only noise.  Several fires burn, untended, in pits providing some illumination.  She searches from habitat to habitat looking._    
   
 _She finally sees him, crumpled to his knees in the doorway of one of the habitats, his back to her.  Rushing to his side, she falls to her knees next to him._    
   
 _"Anakin!"  She calls his name, but he doesn't respond.  His vision is riveted on the scene in front of him, his face expressionless._    
   
 _She turns and is frozen with terror at the sight before her.  Luke lies in the middle of the floor, his eyes open but sightless, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.  There is movement in the corner of the dwelling and Padmé's head whips toward the figure shrouded in black robes.  Unable to move, she watches as the figure pulls back the hood, revealing Leia's face._    
   
 _Padmé shakes her head, silently mouthing 'no' over and over again.  She turns, shaking Anakin hard.  She calls his name again and again, but he won't look at her._    
   
 _"Anakin!"_    
   
 _She finally succeeds in getting his attention.  He turns and looks directly into her eyes._    
   
 _***_    
    
Padmé comes awake with a start and finds herself staring directly into her husband's eyes.   
    
"Where's Luke?" he demands with quiet intensity.   
  


	17. Chapter 17

Padmé comes awake with a start and finds herself staring directly into her husband's eyes.   
    
"Where's Luke?" he demands with quiet intensity.   
  
  
***   
    
Padmé groans, pushing herself into a sitting position, staring blindly across the bedroom.  Next to her, Anakin props himself up on one arm.  Though mentally exhausted, Padmé knows they've slept for a long time and physically she feels better despite the ache in her heart and soul.  She can feel the intensity of his gaze without looking at him.   
    
" _Padmé._ "    
    
Turning, she looks down at him.  "What was that?  A dream?  A vision?  How did that happen?"   
    
"I don't know," he says, impatiently shrugging off her question.  "Answer me.  Where's Luke?"   
    
She stares at him for a moment and sighs in defeat.  "Oovo IV."   
    
Roughly, he pushes himself out of the bed dressed in only his rumpled black trousers.  He paces the room like a caged beast.  "I don't believe you," he curses.  " _You knew_.  You knew I forbid it and you let him go see Kenobi."   
    
"I didn't  _let_  him go, Anakin," she says.  "You said it yourself.  He's a man.  He felt he had to go, so he did.  With my blessing."   
    
The glare he gives her is pure Vader.  "You knew," he says again, his voice soft, but filled with deadly intensity.    
    
"Is that what this was about?" he demands, gesturing to the rumpled bedcovers.  "Did you think I was so eager to fuck you I wouldn't notice  _my_  son was missing?"   
    
She recoils from his words as if they were a slap.   
    
"It disgusts me," he snarls, "that you're so eager to have Kenobi back you're willing to endanger your child's life."   
    
She is willing to take a great deal of grief over this, but he has just crossed a line and they both know it.  Her glare is sufficient incentive for him to hold his tongue.  He postures defiantly for a few more seconds and then grabs the rest of his clothes, shrugging into them as he heads for the door.   
    
As the door hisses shut, Padmé pulls her knees up to her chest and folds her arms around herself, spewing a string of curses that would make a Hutt blush.   
    
***   
    
It is early evening when Padmé finally emerges from her bedroom.  She is freshly showered with her hair pulled into a simple knot at the back of her head.  She spent a long while sorting through her closet for something suitable to wear.  Suitable for what, she's not certain.  She only knows that she doesn't want to wear one of Lady Soh's beautiful gowns and her clothes from Tatooine feel oddly inappropriate as well.  She searched through all the boxes Lady Soh sent over several weeks earlier and found an outfit.  It's oddly reminiscent of what she wore on Geonosis so many years ago.  She hopes that isn't a portent.  And rather than being a pristine white, this soft, close-fitting jumpsuit is black with matching black boots.  She smiles at the absurdity.  She and Anakin look like a matched set.  Or rather they would if they stood next to each other.  She doubts he's in a hurry to see her face to face.   
    
Anakin isn't returning her messages or answering her coms.  She's irritated with herself for being shocked by Anakin's reaction.  She knew he would be angry – irate even – when he learned where Luke went.  But she didn't expect him to accuse her of seducing him as part of some elaborate plot to free her fictional former lover.  Honestly, his reaction isn't unprecedented and certainly shouldn't have been unexpected.   She feels like an idiot for believing a fourteen year separation was sufficient time to move them past such juvenile behavior.    
    
The apartment is empty save Astor.  Padmé knows there are a half-dozen other guards waiting in the hallway and out on the veranda.  Preferring to be alone, she cossets herself in the kitchen, warming her hands around a mug of H'Kak bean tea she can't bring herself to drink.  She is emotionally exhausted.   
    
Padmé still has her hands wrapped around the quickly cooling mug when Mehht enters the kitchen.  Padmé doesn't say anything as Mehht joins her at the small table.  When Mehht crosses her arms over her chest and eyes Padmé speculatively, Padmé looks away.   
    
"Is he talking to you?" Mehht asks.   
    
"No," Padmé answers flatly.   
    
Mehht's expression softens.  "Lorian says he's about ready to send the Imperial Navy looking for Luke."   
    
Padmé's heart catches in her throat.  "Anakin can't find him?"   
    
Mehht shakes her head.  "Lorian says the administrator at Oovo IV reported that Kenobi was missing, but he never saw Luke or the girl."   
    
Padmé sinks back in her chair, heart racing.  What if Anakin's nightmare was right?  What if something unthinkable has happened to the twins?  She has no idea how literal his visions may be, but she knows that they certainly don't bode well for her family.  "What about Leia?"   
    
"I don't know," Mehht replies with more than a little bitterness – unaware of Padmé and Anakin's shared dream.  "Lorian was supposed to be looking for her.  As far as he knew, she hasn’t left Coruscant."   
    
"Dammit," Padmé hisses under her breath, rising to her feet.  She stares out the window, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.  "Where is Lorian? The ImperialPalace?"   
    
Mehht is still nodding when Padmé turns and heads for the door.  In the hallway, Astor snaps to attention.  Padmé glares at him.  "You're going to have to hurt me to keep me in this apartment," she says darkly.  "And regardless of how angry the Emperor may be with me at this moment, I need you to consider how dead you will be when he finds out you injured me. "   
    
Astor seems to consider this information for a moment.  "At least allow me to escort you," he says.   
    
"Done."  Padmé stalks out the door with both Astor and Mehht close behind.   
    
***   
    
Lorian doesn't seem particularly surprised to see any of them as they enter Leia's suite of rooms in the Imperial Palace.  He holds up a datapad.  "At least we know who stole the schematics from Korto's apartment," he says dryly.  Padmé knows he must consider Leia the bane of his existence by now.   
    
Groaning, she screws her eyes shut.  If she can make it to dawn without discovering another of her husband or children's plots, she will consider herself incredibly lucky.  "What was Leia doing with the plans?" she demands, taking the datapad from Lorian.  Just as Anakin indicated, the plans are old, obsolete and unless you're an engineer, incredibly difficult to read.  She returns the datapad to Lorian.   
    
"I don't know," Lorian replies.  "I doubt she was doing much of anything with them.  They have no value.  The project was scrapped.  What little headway was made was dismantled and sold to the highest bidder years ago."   
    
Padmé nearly growls in frustration.  "Can we please assume these plans aren't useless?" she snaps.  "Regardless of how little certain people seem to value life, I find it impossible to believe that people are disappearing and being tortured to death over something that truly has no value."   
    
Lorian shrugs.  "The amount of money and raw materials it would take to make use of these plans is absolutely prohibitive.  Without Imperial backing they're nothing more than a madman's fantasy."   
    
Padmé stares at him impatiently.  He's not a stupid man.  He's going to figure it out any second.   
    
Lorian's face goes pale.    
    
"I don't care if he doesn't want to see me," Padmé orders, "take me to my husband  _now_."   
    
***   
    
"We have to find Luke and Leia."  Padmé's words are shouted over the din of the Imperial War Room.   
    
Anakin meets her gaze, but holds up his hand to silence her as he concentrates on his comlink.  The room is bustling with activity and Padmé threads her way through military personnel, making her way to Anakin's private office.   
    
“I expect to see you within the hour,” he snaps into the comlink before slamming it down on the desk and rising to his feet.   
    
“Was that Leia?” she asks hopefully.   
    
He shakes his head, his lips pursed grimly together.   
    
“We found the schematics in Leia’s rooms,” Padmé says, rushing to get the words out before he orders her from his sight.   
    
“I already know,” he says cutting her off.  He motions to one of the banks of computer terminals against the wall and Padmé recognizes both Taly and Piett.  “They’re running scenarios now, trying to figure out how much of the Death Star Palpatine might have been able to reconstruct since money began being funneled to Byss.”   
    
“Did you find Luke?”   
    
He looks at her, holding her gaze for a moment before shaking his head again.  “Taly had a tracer on Mara’s ship.  Imperial scouts located it abandoned in the shipyards at Aargau.  There were signs of a struggle.”   
    
“Aargau?   That’s where Typho tracked Leia down with Solo.”   
    
He nods.  “It’s a convenient jump point into the Deep Core.”   
    
Her blood is pounding in her ears and she can barely wrap her mind around the possible scenarios.  She starts when wordlessly, Anakin reaches out, gently grasping the front of her sweater and pulling her flush against his body.  He lowers his head so his lips brush the shell of her ear.  “We’ll find them,” he swears.   
    
Tears sting her eyes and she leans into him.  She doubts he has forgiven her, but at this point, she’ll settle for him ignoring what transpired if she can take comfort in his arms.  It’s progress of a sort, she supposes.   
    
Steeling her resolve, she squares her shoulders and pulls back far enough to look him in the eye.  “Who were you talking to when I arrived?”   
    
“My personal physician.”   
    
Padmé gives him a questioning look and he elaborates.  “Leia has been seeing her.  I want to know why.”   
    
More information only means more questions and still no answers.  She wraps her arms tightly around herself, feeling chilled to the core.  “What are we going to do?” she asks.   
    
“My private ship is being prepped for departure.  As soon as I speak with Dr. Hess I’m leaving for Aargau and then the Deep Core.”   
    
“I’m going,” Padmé says firmly.   
    
Anakin watches her for a tense moment and then gives her a small nod.   
    
***   
    
Imperial Physician Lieutenant Kyah Hess is everything Padmé isn't.  She's tall, blonde and blessed with curves more suited to a dancing girl than a doctor.  She is also quite young.  Padmé assumes that to have risen in the ranks at such a tender age, Lt. Hess must be quite a gifted physician – and quite ruthless.   Her imperial uniform appears tailored like a glove, displaying her figure to perfection while adhering strictly to dress code.  Luckily for Lt. Hess, Padmé doesn’t have the spare brain cycles at the moment to wonder whether or not her husband has been playing doctor with his doctor.   
    
"My Lord," Lt. Hess says, giving Anakin a sultry smile.   
    
On second thought, Padmé does apparently have enough cycles to wonder about her husband's fidelity.  While she has no intention of getting in a catfight over Anakin, she knows better than to provide him with too much temptation.  She makes a mental note to find some stodgy old Mon Calamari doctor to appoint as Anakin's private physician at the earliest possible convenience.   
    
"Doctor," Anakin relies dryly, not bothering to look up from his desk terminal where his attention is fixated on the latest intelligence reports feeding in.   
    
Padmé watches with a great deal of satisfaction as Lt. Hess's smile cools several degrees.  The doctor squares her shoulders, correctly reading this as a purely professional house call.  She stands at attention in front of Anakin's desk.   
    
Finally turning away from the terminal, Anakin looks at Lt. Hess.  "What were you treating Leia for?"   
    
Lt. Hess swallows thickly.  "My Lord, you must understand that I am not at liberty to discuss your daughter's medical treatment with you without – "   
    
"I don't have to understand a damn thing," Anakin interrupts.  With a wave of his hand, he triggers the office door closed.    
    
Without the constant din of noise from the War Room, the office is shockingly quiet.  Lt. Hess looks around the office.  While Padmé knows Lt. Hess was aware of her presence, the doctor still startles visibly as their eyes lock.   
    
"Padmé, may I present Lt. Kyah Hess, my personal physician," Anakin says tightly.  "Lt. Hess, my wife, the Empress Padmé."   
    
Lt. Hess nods, obviously uneasy.  "Milady."    
    
"Tell me," Anakin orders darkly.   
    
Lt. Hess frowns and then shrugs.  "Insomnia."   
    
Padmé takes a step closer.  "Leia was having trouble sleeping?"   
    
Lt. Hess's head snaps toward Padmé and again Padmé has the impression that the doctor is unnerved by more than simply her presence.  Lt. Hess clears her throat and nods.  "Yes, ma'am."   
    
"For how long?" Anakin asks.   
    
"Quite some time, My Lord," Lt. Hess replies.  "She's been seeing me for a little over four months.  I believe she had problems with the insomnia for several months prior to seeking help."   
    
Padmé crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing Lt. Hess carefully.  "How did you help my daughter?"   
    
Lt. Hess meets Padmé's gaze again and this time there is no uneasy undercurrent.  Padmé questioned the doctor's abilities and Lt. Hess obviously doesn't take such things lightly.  There is a steely quality in the young woman's bright green eyes.  "Medications, ma'am," she says tightly.  "I suggested behavioral changes, exercise, meditation, but the Imperial Princess was not interested in those suggestions.  She said she already tried them all and she was clearly exhausted."   
    
"So you drugged her?" Padmé challenges.   
    
"I medicated her, ma'am," Lt. Hess bristles in reply.  "With the latest generation of sleep medications.  They are highly effective with few if any side effects."  She swallows and shifts uncomfortably.  Her jaw is still firmly set, but it's obvious there is more.   
    
"But?" Anakin prompts.   
    
Lt. Hess meets the Emperor's gaze.  "Leia's constitution and metabolism are far more … _efficient_  than most humans."   
    
"So you overmedicated her?" Padmé demands.   
    
Lt. Hess's expression tightens, but her tone remains stiffly proper.  "No.  I didn't.  I adhered to protocol.  I informed her I could not diverge from standard protocol without parental consent.  She declined."  Taking a deep breath, Lt. Hess continues, "Personally, I believe that Leia's problems are more psychological than physical in nature."   
    
Padmé looks at Anakin.  " _Visions_?"   
    
Anakin's jaw clenches.  "That will be all, doctor."   
    
***   
    
“Kenobi was here,” Anakin says tightly.   
    
Padmé watches him inspect the confined space of Mara’s ship, saying nothing.  This is her fault and they both know it.  She shouldn’t have let Luke go.  He may have an old soul, but he’s still so young.  She should have convinced him to stay, to wait.    
    
“Is there anything else?” she asks quietly.  Padmé doesn’t know what she was hoping for, some insight from the Force that would tell Anakin where Luke, Mara and Obi-Wan are, if they’ve been harmed.  “Can you  _sense_  him at all?”  She has no idea how reasonable her request may be.  She has only ever had the most rudimentary understanding of Jedi powers, but even if she was better informed, she suspects this situation would be an anomaly.  Unlike a Master's bond with his or her Padawan or even a bond between two powerful Jedi, Anakin, Luke and Leia's connection to one another is bolstered by a visceral, physical bond.  They are blood relatives who have spent their entire lives in close proximity with one another.  But Padmé has never questioned the twins’ bond with one another or their father through the Force.  She has no idea if they can sense each other over great distances or not.   
    
He gives a terse shake of his head.  “Nothing.”   
    
“What does that mean?”   
    
“I don’t know,” he snaps impatiently.  “Nothing at this point.  I don’t get the sense that he’s been harmed or killed.  He’s just …  _gone._ ”   
    
Anakin turns abruptly and passes her as he exits Mara's ship.  Padmé follows him as he stalks his way across the busy dock toward his private ship.  The trip to Aargau wasn't long but Anakin didn't speak to her at all.  He didn't appear to be fuming the entire way – which she considers a positive turn of events – but she has no idea what he's thinking.    
    
When they enter the cockpit, there is a message waiting.  It's from Lorian informing them he cannot find Leia or Typho and it's beginning to look like Leia may have left Coruscant.   
    
 _"Dammit!"_  Anakin swears, punching one of the instrument consoles.  The console sparks and fizzles, the lights going dim.    
    
Padmé's eyes burn with tears she will not allow to fall.  Both the children are gone.  Luke was obviously taken by force.  Leia is missing.  She may be involved with Luke's disappearance or it may simply be coincidence.  Padmé's stomach churns painfully.  She knows Leia's absence isn't a coincidence.  Padmé refuses to allow for the possibility that Leia willfully harmed her twin, but Padmé knows her daughter's disappearance is related to Luke's disappearance in some way.   
    
And it's all her fault.  In returning to Coruscant with the hopes of righting her wrongs, she ruined everything and endangered her children's lives.   
    
"It's not your fault."   
    
Padmé looks at her husband and is unable to prevent a tear from tracing down her cheek.  She shrugs, wiping impatiently at the tear.  She doesn't want to show this weakness to him.  Not only is he likely to be unsupportive, it's entirely possible he'll accuse her of trying to manipulate him.   
    
"It's not your fault," he says again, more softly.   
    
She looks at him and then away again quickly.  "I thought you were convinced I seduced you and endangered Luke to free my lover."  The words are bitter, the emotions behind them even more so.  She doesn't want to be this way, but she is so raw right now with worry for Luke and Leia, she can't seem to stem the tide of vitriolic emotions.   
    
Anakin takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.  He looks absolutely exhausted.  "Sixteen years ago Palpatine used my fears to manipulate me to perfection.  I do not intend for it to happen again."   
    
She watches him for a long moment.  "Does that mean you believe me?"   
    
He looks at her, holding her gaze.  "As difficult as it is at times," he says with a mirthless smile, "I can learn from my mistakes."   
    
"You made a mistake?" she prompts in a tone that is more goading than is probably prudent, especially given his oddly charitable mood.   
    
He smiles at her but it is not an entirely friendly gesture.  "I don't believe you betrayed me with Obi-Wan."    
    
Given the effort he puts into forming the words, Padmé isn't at all certain he does believe what he's saying.  Though the fact that he's saying the words at all is rather astounding.  "Good," she says tentatively.  "Because I didn't betray you."   
    
As Padmé watches, Anakin sighs and closes his eyes, taking a moment to center himself.  Opening his eyes, he wearily scrubs a hand across his face.   He looks at the damaged instrument console.  He doesn't seem concerned, and Padmé assumes the panel didn't regulate any mission critical systems.   
    
"What now?" she asks.   
    
Turning he looks at her.  "There's only one place left to look."   
    
"Byss."   
    
He nods.  


	18. Chapter 18

“Riots?” Padmé asks, a cold dread settling in her chest.  
  
“I’m afraid so,” Bail replies, his image flickering on the holo projector.  “For now it’s confined to a half-dozen skilled laborers’ guilds scattered across systems on the Mid-Rim-Outer-Rim border, Sullust, Haruun Kal, Malastare.”  
  
“That’s close to Naboo,” Padmé says without thinking.  
  
“So far we haven’t had any reports of problems on Naboo, but other random issues are filtering in.  The local governors have been abandoned to their own devices.  I’m afraid it’s going to get bloody.  Without the full weight of the Empire visibly backing the governors, some will do whatever is necessary to assert their authority.  Trade is already disrupted.  Some of these systems are far from self-sufficient.”  
  
Padmé groans, leaning her forehead against one of the yacht’s bulkheads.    
  
“The Empire is falling apart,” Bail says gravely.  “The Emperor cleaned house, but didn’t appoint replacements and now he’s unreachable.  I've heard through unofficial channels that someone from the Imperial Security Office is trying to hold things together.”  
  
“Piett,” Padmé says under her breath.  She sighs.  "Anakin is … preoccupied," she explains, cringing at how woefully inadequate an excuse it is.  
  
Bail purses his lips.  “I heard he butchered Korto.”  
  
“Korto tried to have me killed.”  
  
“You’re not denying it,” Bail presses quietly.  
  
“No.”  She looks at him, her lips pulled into a frown.  “I’m not denying it.”  
  
Bail shakes his head, more weary than disgusted.  “You have to do something, Padmé.  If he allows this power vacuum to continue, chaos is going to consume the galaxy.  Mas Amedda is being very quiet, which worries me a lot.”  
  
“Surely you and Mon have a contingency plan for something like this,” Padmé says, trying not to sound bitter.  She really doesn’t begrudge them.  In their place, she would do the same thing.  It’s only prudent.  
  
“A plan, yes, but we never allowed for these circumstances.  The Emperor has incredible public appeal right now, thanks largely to your return.”  
  
 _That’s what I get for ignoring HoloNet all this time_ , Padmé thinks.  She sighs loudly.  “I wish I could help you right now, Bail. I really do.  But I can’t.  Luke and Leia are both missing.”  
  
“This is your opportunity, Padmé!” Bail stresses.  “If you assumed the throne, it would be a bloodless coup.”  
  
“Is that what you want?” she demands incredulously.  “Another imperial?”  
  
“Ideally, no, but I gave up many of my ideals long ago.  You owe us this, Padmé.  You owe the galaxy.”  
  
She shakes her head.  “I can’t.  I won’t.”  
  
He sighs, slumping in his chair.  “Sometimes I have trouble remembering Senator Amidala.”  
  
She smiles sadly.  “You’re exactly as I remember you, Bail.”  
  
He looks up at her, disappointed, tired, but not angry.  “I hope you find the children soon.”  
  
“Thank you, Bail,” she says softly before closing the connection.  
  
She sighs, wiping away unwanted tears.  She stands, straightening her outfit and makes her way forward to the cockpit.  
  
“The navigators are calculating alternate routes as fast as they can, My Lord.  If you can give us more time – “  
  
Anakin cuts off the transmission from one of his generals with a snarl.  Padmé watches him as he shifts uneasily in the pilot’s chair, filled with restless energy.  They have been sitting in Anakin’s grounded ship on Aargau for at least six standard hours.  During that time, three Imperator class Star Destroyers have arrived and assumed orbit.  However, there seems to be no end of issues with attempting to get the behemoths from Aargau to Byss.  
  
“How long do the calculations take?” Padmé asks wearily, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat.  Every minute they sit here is another minute that their children could spend being tortured – or worse.  
  
Anakin pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes screwed tightly shut.  “At this rate, years.”  
  
She stares at him aghast and he relents.  “The navigators are trying," he explains.  "It’s nearly impossible – even for Force sensitives - to try and plot a course through hyperspace in this region.  It’s why Palpatine chose it as his personal retreat.”  
  
“But there has to be a way.  The smuggler, Solo, was running shipments to Byss.”  
  
Anakin frowns.  “His freighter was only marginally larger than this ship.  It’s still difficult, but nowhere near as dangerous as attempting to navigate Star Destroyers through this region.”  
  
“Could you do it?” Padmé demands.  
  
“Of course,” he scoffs.  
  
“Then why are we still sitting here?”  
  
“Because it’s exactly what Palpatine would expect from me.  And if he expects it, then he’s prepared for it.  I would rather arrive covertly in my ship and then have the Star Destroyers rendezvous at an appointed time and location.”  
  
Padmé slumps back in the seat.  She marvels for a moment at Anakin's response to the situation.  To see him show any type of restraint before charging in is shocking.  Perhaps he is maturing beyond his hotheaded youth.    
  
Anakin’s plan is undoubtedly prudent.  But sadly, that leaves them with only two alternatives.  Waiting and hoping for a miracle which allows the Imperial navigators to chart a successful course, or heading to Byss with no reinforcements.  Neither is particularly tempting.  
  
“What are we going to do?”  
  
He looks at her, holding her gaze for several long moments.  “I’ve never been patient.”  
  
***  
  
Anakin whistles, studying the long range scanner.  "Well, it certainly is big," he says derisively.  They have just exited hyperspace and despite all of Anakin’s reassurances, it was a harrowing ride.  Anakin hardly spoke the entire time, all of his attention consumed with keeping the yacht on course.  
  
“Is that the Death Star?” Padmé asks.    
  
“Yes,” he replies quietly, looking decidedly defeated as they study the visual of the Death Star which has been magnified several orders on the scanner.  
  
She shrugs, putting on a brave front.  “It doesn’t look  _that_  big.”  
  
He stares at her for a second.  Then another second.  “We’re two light minutes out.”  
  
She blinks.  “Is that a long way?”  
  
“Thirty-six million kilometers.”  
  
“ _Oh_.”  
  
***  
  
They're close to the planet – far closer than Padmé would have thought prudent.  But Anakin explained that the gravity wells in the sector play havoc with all the sensors so proximity is a necessity.  The planet looks verdantly lush, like Naboo, with a great deal of surface water and continents colored green by an abundance of native flora.  "It looks serene," Padmé says almost wistfully, studying the surface of Byss through the cockpit  windows.    
  
"It's not," Anakin says, eyeing the planet warily.  "This entire system is steeped in the dark side."  
  
Padmé turns away from the view and looks closely at her husband.  "I would think you would find that comforting."  
  
He gives her an unreadable look, choosing not to reply.  
  
Pressing several buttons on the console in quick succession, he brings up a topographical readout on the scanners.  "The Death Star is in geosynchronous orbit above this location."  He pushes a few more buttons and the yacht's long range scanners pull up a live, though fuzzy, image to accompany the topographical readout.  
  
Padmé leans closer to study the screen, but before she can take a good look, alarms blare inside the cockpit.  She snaps back in her chair, scanning the windows and sensors for the source of the alarm.  Anakin is already in motion, his fingers flying across the console adjusting speed and orientation.  
  
“What is it?” Padmé yells over the din.  
  
“Proximity alert,” Anakin answers quickly, not taking his eyes off the console to look at her.  “We’ve got to get out of here.  Now.”  He reaches over his shoulder, flipping several more switches.  
  
Padmé watches the sensors her heart pounding in her chest as she watches the outline of a very, very large ship overtake their position.  There is a loud clang followed by the scream of metal alloys under intense stresses.  
  
“Kriff!”  
  
She looks over at Anakin.  He scowls for a heartbeat, then another.  He returns her look.  “It’s a tractor beam.”  Finally, he reaches over and cuts the engines before they overload, swearing in frustration.  
  
He's out of his seat, his hand clamped around her upper arm as he half drags her aft.  She doesn't have time to ask him what he's doing before he starts tearing through compartments, rummaging through gear.  She can hear loud banging outside as the yacht is pulled into the larger ship's hold.    
  
"What are you looking for?" Padmé demands, wincing and taking shelter behind Anakin as sparks erupt near the emergency hatch from someone cutting through it.  
  
"A breath mask."  
  
"For what?"  
  
They both turn as the large flap of metal hull is wrenched backwards and a projectile is lobbed through the opening.  Padmé watches as the canister hisses and begins spewing a toxic cloud.  
  
" _That_ ," Anakin curses, pulling her back toward the cockpit and away from the fumes.  
  
"We are honored by your presence, My Lord," a booming voice says over the hangar's speaker system.  "We expected you a bit sooner.  Perhaps we can blame the Empress for your tardiness.  She is quite …  _distracting_."  
  
Padmé knows that voice. She hasn't heard it many times, but it's very distinctive – all precise control and clipped edges.  
  
"Tarkin," Anakin snarls.  He pulls the lightsaber from his belt, intending to ignite it and cut away a section of the hull.  Padmé clutches his arm, beginning to sway from the noxious fumes.  
  
"I have no doubt you could escape unscathed, My Lord," Tarkin continues.  "Though I'm not sure the same is true for the Empress.  And let us not forget, we have your son."  
  
Anakin turns to face Padmé.  She holds his gaze, imploring him to cooperate.  “Please, Anakin, he has Luke.”  
  
His jaw is firmly set, his expression hard, but the lightsaber remains unlit.  Padmé feels her knees give way and collapses against him.  
  
"Enough, Tarkin!" Anakin bellows.    
  
***  
  
Padmé thrashes, fighting to regain consciousness.  
  
“ _Easy_.”  
  
Anakin’s quiet voice cuts through the haze and she stills.  Her head pounds, but she can now discern that she is resting against him, cradled close to his body.  She tries to open her eyes, but the burst of light seems to sear into her already scrambled brain and she screws her eyelids tightly shut again.  
  
“Give it a minute.  Tarkin flooded the ship with coma gas.  Now that you’re conscious, the side effects should pass soon.”  
  
Unconvinced, but with no other options, Padmé waits a minute.  Then another.  Despite her pessimism, the effects of the gas do seem to be weakening.  She dares to open her eyes again and this time, she is much less light sensitive.  She blinks quickly, scanning the room with her eyes, not yet brave enough to attempt moving her head.  
  
The room is non-descript and stiflingly small with a single door which is no doubt locked from the outside.  She licks her dry lips.  “We’re on a ship.”  
  
“The _Executrix_ ,” he says dryly.  “ _My_  ship.  Probably en route to the Death Star.”  
  
Gingerly, Padmé pushes herself back so she is sitting under her own power rather than slumping against her husband.  She is still woozy, but the sensations are quickly passing.  She looks at Anakin.  His face is set in the same grim lines she saw aboard the yacht.  She can only imagine how angry he must be beneath his controlled exterior.  Surely Tarkin’s betrayal and use of Anakin’s own ship against him must outrage him to his very core.  
  
She narrows her eyes at him.  “You seem to have recovered quickly.”  
  
He cocks an eyebrow at her.  “I didn’t succumb to the gas.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
He smiles at her mirthlessly.  “If all it took to incapacitate me was a little coma gas and a Star Destroyer, I wouldn’t have lasted a week as Emperor.”  
  
Padmé looks away.  No doubt he’s absolutely right.  “What’s the plan?”  
  
“Tarkin claims to have Luke.”  
  
“Do you believe him?”  
  
“He isn’t to be trusted, but I don’t think he was lying about Luke.  Without Luke, he wouldn’t have anything to bargain.  Tarkin never bluffs.”  
  
She nods sadly, trying not to break down at the thought of her son in the hands of not only that retched creature, Tarkin, but possibly the Emperor as well.  “Can you feel Luke?”  
  
He shakes his head, frowning.  “I can’t sense anything in the Force.  Tarkin must have a large number of ysalamiri aboard the ship.  
  
Padmé’s eyes go wide and panic seizes her.  If Anakin isn’t able to use the Force, they’re in incredible danger.  
  
“It explains why I haven’t been able to feel Luke” he says calmly.  “If they’re using ysalamiri to subdue me, they’re surely doing the same thing to him.”  
  
"You make it sound like that's a good thing," Padmé says incredulously.  
  
Anakin looks at her seriously.  "There are only two ways Tarkin could have dealt with a Force user of Luke's caliber.  He could kill him or find a way to negate his abilities.  I prefer the latter and I'm sure you do too."  
  
***  
  
Padmé and Anakin are escorted by soldiers armed with both blasters and ysalamiri into the large holding cell aboard the Death Star.  The soldiers march them into the cell and then turn and leave, sealing the heavy, metal door behind themselves.  The cell is dark and dank with just enough illumination to make out the shape of another captive.  
  
“They got you too?” Luke asks in disappointment.  
  
“Luke!” Padmé runs to her son, embracing him tightly.  He looks terrible, even the meager light.  His clothes are filthy and torn.  There is a nasty bruise across his left cheek and jaw.  Dark circles are under his eyes.    
  
"Are you okay?" she asks tearfully, knowing he has been through a lot.  
  
He shrugs, not meeting her gaze.  "They roughed me up a little, but I can take it."  He sets his jaw firmly and finally meets her gaze.  
  
She keeps her words to herself.  He's a man.  But he's still her baby and the fact that someone dared to harm a hair on his head is enough to send her into a murderous rage.  But he’s alive and whole and she concentrates on that feeling.  She has never been so relieved.  After the vision-dream she and Anakin shared, she feared the worst.  
  
She finally releases Luke and he takes a deep breath, straightening his spine as he faces his father.  Anakin’s lips are pressed into a frown, but he reaches out and claps his son firmly on the shoulder.  “Your mother was very worried.”  
  
Padmé frowns at her husband.  
  
“Is Leia with you?” Anakin asks.  
  
“Leia?” Luke asks, brow furrowing.  “No.  It’s just been me and Mara and Ben since Tarkin’s goons transferred us here from his Star Destroyer a couple days ago.”  
  
Movement in Padmé’s peripheral vision catches her attention and she turns her head.  There is a bench running the length of the room built for function, not comfort.  There are two forms huddled together.  Padmé knows it must be Mara and Obi-Wan.    
  
She crosses the cell.  As her eyes adjust to the absence of light, it's easier to make out detail.  If she hadn’t already known Obi-Wan's identity, she never would have guessed.  Time and circumstance –  _and Anakin_   - have not been kind to the Jedi.  He looks ancient far beyond his years.  His hair and beard are snow white and he has a frail quality Padmé never would have associated with him.  
  
She turns and gives Anakin a sharp look.  He meets the look, his face set into a challenging expression daring her to say something.  Reluctantly, Padmé holds her tongue.  She knows it is nothing short of a miracle that Anakin hasn’t already attacked Obi-Wan.  Though she suspects maybe even the Emperor isn't a big enough bully to assault a feeble old man.  
  
Kneeling next to Mara and Obi-Wan, she places a gentle hand on his leg.  Even in the dim light, she can tell Obi-Wan's once blue eyes are now a clouded, milky white.  He turns toward her, reaching out.  His hand covers hers and he smiles.  "Hello, there," he says warmly.  "Good to see you, old friend."  
  
She tries to speak, but the words are caught in her throat and tears burn her eyes.  How did it come to this?  She remembers when they all used to be so close.  True, she and Anakin never revealed the full extent of their relationship to Obi-Wan, but the three of them were friends.  They valued one another's opinions and companionship.  She counted Obi-Wan as a good friend, a trusted advisor, and she knew he felt similarly.  As for Anakin and Obi-Wan, they were brothers.  And now …  
  
Her breath hitches and tears stream down her cheeks.  
  
"Now, now," Obi-Wan says softly.  "None of that.  It's not as dire as it may seem."  
  
"You're blind and crippled," Padmé counters in disbelief.  "We're all prisoners.  How can you say it's not dire?"  
  
Obi-Wan laughs softly again.  "A Jedi is never truly a prisoner."  He lifts his chin.  "Isn't that right, my former Padawan?"  
  
Padmé doesn't know if Obi-Wan is referring to his tenure as Anakin's prisoner or to their current imprisonment.  Probably both.  She doesn't risk glancing over her shoulder.  Though Anakin doesn't reply, she can well imagine the glare he is giving his former Master.  
  
"Lot of good Force training is doing us," Luke says with a snort.  "First we were captured, now Mom and Dad.  How did this happen?  We're smarter than this."  
  
"Apparently not," Obi-Wan and Anakin reply in unison.  
  
Obi-Wan's lips quirk into a smile, but he wisely refrains from commenting.  
  
"I allowed myself to be captured," Anakin clarifies.  "It seemed to be the quickest way to find out if Palpatine actually had you."  
  
"Palpatine?" Luke says in shock.  "Tarkin ambushed us near Kooriva.  Palpatine's dead.”  He looks at his father questioningly.  “ _Isn't he_?"  
  
"Too many things are falling into place.  Someone is manipulating events and people.  There was an assassination attempt against your mother several days ago."  
  
"Mom?" Luke demands, eyes going wide as he looks at Padmé.  
  
"I'm fine," Padmé assures her son.  "Just a few bruises."  
  
"We good reason to believe Palpatine is alive," Anakin says firmly.  He looks at Obi-Wan.  
  
Despite being blind, Obi-Wan seems to sense Anakin's attention to him.  He bows his head.  "Even in the absence of the Force, I do sense Sidious's malignant plotting in Takin's efforts."  
  
"The use of ysalamiri explains why he's letting Tarkin do all the work," Padmé says.  "He can't get involved without being effected himself."  
  
"True," Obi-Wan agrees, "but I expect he will make himself known soon enough.  Sith Lords are rarely able to suppress the urge to gloat."  
  
Ignoring Obi-Wan's jab, Anakin adds darkly, "Or the urge to exact their revenge."  
   
Padmé looks anxiously at her husband, finding him looking at Luke.  
  
"What happened?" Anakin asks his son.  
  
Luke shrugs and looks away.  
  
"I know what torture looks like," Anakin says pointedly.  
  
Luke shifts his weigh uneasily on the balls of his feet.  "Some guards knocked me around a little."  
  
"He could barely walk for a day," Mara says, speaking for the first time.  
  
Luke shoots Mara a sharp glance, but then looks back to his father.  
  
Anakin closes the distance to his son.  Reaching out, he grabs Luke's chin and inspects the deep bruise across his left cheek.  "Blaster butt?" he asks.  
  
Luke nods.  As Anakin releases him, Luke rubs his jaw.  "They hit a lot harder than you."  
  
Anakin sighs in exasperation.  "I wasn't  _trying_  to hurt you.   _Kriff_."  
  
***  
  
They've been sitting here in the chilly, fetid dark for what feels like days – but in actuality is probably only hours.  Padmé's backside is numb.  And she's cold – despite being pressed tightly against Anakin.  They're sitting on the cold metal floor leaning back against a cold metal wall.  Several paces away, Luke sits, legs sprawled in front of him, tugging absently on a lock of hair.  Between his hair tugging and Anakin tapping his metal fingers against the floor, Padmé is about ready to scream.   Every few minutes, Obi-Wan lets loose a series of bone-wracking coughs.  
  
There is the sound of heavy footfalls outside the door before the portal finally hisses open.  Her vision is so attuned to the dark Padmé has to lift her hand to shield her eyes from the bright light streaming into the cell.    
  
A lone person enters the room, standing at attention, apparently surveying the scene.  Padmé knows who it is before he speaks.    
  
"Senator Amidala," Tarkin bites out, saying her former title as if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.  "I would be so honored if you would join me."  
  
Anakin is on his feet in moments, dragging Padmé with him and stepping protectively in front of her.  
  
Tarkin laughs mirthlessly.  "How …  _quaint_ ," he says disdainfully.  "I never considered that the Lord Vader might have some misguided chivalry."  He snaps his fingers.  "Guards!"  
  
Four heavily armed guards enter the cell and Padmé can feel Anakin's muscles tense.  She grabs his shoulder.  "Don't do this."  
  
"They're taking you over my dead body," he snarls.  
  
"That's  _exactly_  how it's going to happen if you don't stop this foolishness and think."  
  
Her insult has the desired effect as his snarl morphs into a surly frown.  
  
"They didn't go to all the trouble of taking us alive only to get me here and kill me," Padmé explains.  
  
He snorts.  "That's an incredibly naïve thing to say."  
  
"Go with this, Anakin," she presses.  "We have no way out of here, no way of knowing what's happening.  Let me go with Tarkin."  
  
The guards are now standing mere feet away, weapons raised.  
  
"Please," Padmé implores.  
  
He is obviously angry, but he steps back, letting her walk past him.  
  
Padmé is encircled by the guards and Tarkin rewards her with a nasty, predatory smile.  "I'm so glad you're reasonable," he says.    
  
Padmé doesn't look back at Anakin.  She can't.  She hears Tarkin fall into step behind her as the guards march her through the door.  
  
"If anything happens to her, Tarkin, I'll rip your spine out with my bare hands," Anakin shouts.  
  
The door hisses shut and Padmé turns to look at Tarkin.  He smiles another vile smile.  "Charming, to the last," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the end of the story.


End file.
